Three's A Crowd
by museme87
Summary: Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame.
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing(s):** Brian/Justin, Ben/Michael, Mel/Lindsay, Ted/Blake, Deb/Carl**  
><strong>**Summary:**Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is far more permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame. [Post 5.13]

**Chapter:** 1  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 5,271  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Past Justin/OMC, strong language, substance abuse  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm a definite late comer to the QAF scene but have more than made up for it in my obsessing over the past few months. This is a post 5.13, multi-chapter kid!fic, but definitely not in the fluffy, domestic bliss sense. I've tried to depict the scenario as realistic as possible. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>He has no idea what the fuck he's doing here.<p>

Or, at least, that's what Brian's been telling himself ever since his arrival. The reality of the situation is far different, and he knows it. There are so very few things that could tear him away from a Saturday night at Babylon. One of those things—maybe the _only_thing, really, barring Gus—is Justin. As far as Brian is concerned, the little shit has been responsible for every act of insanity he's ever committed, every lesbianic emotion he's ever felt.

And this—waiting at Pittsburgh International in the middle of a blizzard—is definitely insane. And a little lesbianic, too, but Brian is less willing to admit to that.

He'll never know what it was about Justin that night under the street lamp. Brian understands _why_he picked Justin up, of course. That's not the question. The question is what was it about Justin that let him slip in under the wire when no one else ever has before. And ultimately, what keeps him coming back for Justin time and again. It's too damn difficult to make sense of, so Brian has long since stopped trying and reluctantly accepts it.

Justin Taylor will be in his life for as long as he wants to be. And he'll certainly be in Brian's heart—and wildest sexual fantasies—long after that, probably until Brian's dying day.

So that's why he's here, in the middle of a blizzard, five years after Justin left him for New York. He_can't_be anywhere else, not when it comes to him.

Brian checks his Rolex for what must be the fifth time in half as many minutes. His stomach is tied up in knots from all this damn waiting. Justin's plane is three hours late due to the shit weather hitting the East Coast. He shouldn't be travelling at all, and Brian's mind is plagued with visions of plane crashes. It has been ever since he was unable to reach Justin to make other flight arrangements.

Of course, he would have never explained the need to reschedule like that to Justin, wouldn't have mentioned how he needs him safe and sound. He's not a Stepford Fag, doesn't do all that mushy, lovey-dovey bullshit.

But now he can't shake the sense of dread creeping up on him as each second that Justin isn't firmly on the ground ticks by. Every time Justin puts himself in harm's way like this, Brian's stomach rolls with the memory of bats and bombs.

He tries to push all of that aside, knowing well that he's not self-medicated enough to deal with those two nights. They may have happened ages ago, but some parts are more vivid now than ever—the wails of the sirens, bright red blood, smoke and ash. Brian shuts his eyes tightly, fighting off the memories.

Resolved not to do this here and especially not tonight, Brian stands and moves towards the escalators leading from the arrival area. His eyes are fixed—much as they were on the tiny window to Justin's hospital room—almost willing Justin to life.

Not ten minutes later, Brian chances a glance at the arrival and departure screen, knowing what it'll say but hoping against hope anyway. To his surprise, the screen tells him that Justin's plane has arrived. He's momentarily overcome with relief. The tension first easing, but then gripping him once again. This time for an entirely different reason.

He's not seen Justin's face in ages. They've been through so much since he moved away, not all of it good. Two and a half years ago they'd broken-up again—if one were inclined to use such a limiting word, heavy with implication. And despite what Brian thought, they hadn't kissed and made up just a few short months after. Apparently, they are now destined for perpetual friendship, and Brian supposes that it's life's sick joke on him—give him the man of his twisted lesbianic dreams and then steal him away far enough so that he can look but never touch.

"Brian?"

He turns towards that familiar voice, sees his Sunshine standing feet from him with a look of curiosity on his face. Immediately, his mind supplies him with a hazy memory of Justin appearing from a throng of queens and queers, leaning against a pole with a remarkably similar expression. He's not aged too much since that night, but his hair is longer now, and he has a better fashion sense, though not by much.

"Sunshine."

As Justin steps forward, his lips—lips that, quite frankly, were made for sucking Brian's cock—pull into a smile worthy of his nickname. Brian can't suppress his own for all that he tries, and he takes in Justin's look of pleasant surprise. It's as if Justin hadn't expected him—of all people—to be picking him up tonight. And that's damn ironic considering that the arrangements had been made weeks in advance between him, Justin, and the rest of their happy homo family.

Finally getting to feast his eyes on Justin after all this time somehow makes that whole fiasco worth it. Worth the headaches, the stress, the phone calls, and Debbie's demands that he stop being such a pussy about the whole thing.

And it somehow makes meeting _her_worth it, too.

His eyes don't leave Justin's face, mostly so he won't have to take in _hers_. Brian can't remember her name, despite all the pictures that Justin has emailed him and half the goddamn planet in the past year and a half. He supposes that it's got less to do with not giving a fuck and more to do with giving too much of one. Because one thing became clear to him the day he received Justin's excited call—Brian Kinney had met his match.

_I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm going to be a dad!_

Brian doesn't remember much of that conversation, only how his stomach had dropped at the news and the sheer joy in Justin's voice. Justin was filled with pure, unfettered love for this kid from that moment on, and Brian couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle it because it was love for someone other than himself.

That's why all of Justin's emails were marked as spam from that night on, why his calls more often than not went unanswered. Brian willingly faded from Justin's life because this feeling was eating him alive. He wouldn't call it jealousy—Brian Kinney doesn't _do_jealousy—but that's what it was. And it was that night, after one too many Beams, that Brian realized that the only person who could make him feel like this is Justin.

Justin Taylor—the fucking exception to every one of his goddamn rules.

"Sorry we're late," Justin says, and from the tone Brian can tell that Justin is trying to feel his mood out.

He shrugs. "Just glad you made it in one piece. I tried to call…"

"I saw when we landed. I had my phone off."

"It doesn't matter. You're here now, and I can rest easier tonight knowing that Debbie won't have my balls for showing up Sunshine-less."

At Justin's laugh, Brian has to resist the urge to kiss him. They'd done it for so long—seven fucking years, for Christ's sake—that kissing Justin comes as naturally as breathing. But after pulling a vanishing act to rival Houdini's, Brian doesn't think he has the right to initiate that anymore.

He put this kid through hell and back when they both lived in the Pitts, but the one thing he'd never done was abandon Justin. The past year and a half has been a first for him, and while Brian doesn't necessarily regret pulling back, he wonders if he shouldn't have pulled _away_.

It's a snuffling sound that breaks Brian's concentration on Justin. Before he can think to stop himself, hazel eyes fall from Justin's blue to the small, blonde head resting on his shoulder, half-hidden by a blanket so vibrantly orange that it would make Auntie Em proud.

Justin's kid is nothing short of beautiful—the spitting image of her father. And because he's never been able to say no to her daddy, Brian wonders how he'll fair against the little urchin. He hopes that whatever Taylor gene codes for being a loveable pain in the ass hasn't been inherited. Otherwise, he's completely fucked.

"Ready?" Brian asks, clearing his throat.

"Yeah." Justin shifts his kid in his arms, and she doesn't so much as stir. "Did Mom send her car seat with you?"

"Unfortunately."

After Gus had outgrown his, Brian had sworn that there'd never be a car seat in one of his vehicles again. It made him feel far too much like a Stepford Fag, not to mention that it could have devastating effects on the image he's tried to create and maintain for himself over the years. So much for that. And he has Justin to thank, as always.

The buzzer signals the arrival of the luggage, drawing the pair of them towards the belt. Brian doesn't know what to say to Justin to pass the time, so they stand in relative silence. It's not strange like it might be for some people; God knows they've never been much for words, preferring touching or fucking to conversation. But they don't have that now, and Brian wonders how he's going to learn how to fill that void.

"How's work?" Justin asks.

"Fine, thanks." Brian glances over to him. "And your art?"

"Not bad."

The look Justin shares with him is one that so easily expresses Brian's exact thought—_who the fuck are we?_. This isn't them. There's no witty banter, no innuendo. It's so fucking forced, the sort of conversation people have when they _have_to make conversation.

Have they really forgotten how to be Brian and Justin? Have two and a half years of no sex between them really made them lose their familiar rhythm with one another? And if so, was sex really the only thing that held them together in the first place? Brian's always been fucking's biggest supporter, but the thought of his entire relationship with Justin being hinged on it nearly horrifies him.

Thankfully Justin spots his luggage, giving Brian an opportunity to do something that isn't _thinking_. He collects it quickly enough, passes one suitcase to Justin, and starts towards the door. Brian's not made it three steps before he finds Justin struggling with the urchin, her diaper bag, and the luggage.

Coming to a halt, Brian makes a show of being put-upon—rolling his eyes and shooting Justin a derisive look—before taking the _suitcase_from Justin. Having already decided they are mortal enemies, he'd rather lose his other ball than carry the spawn-of-Sunshine.

"Brian?"

He feels Justin catch his coat sleeve with his now-free hand. Justin's expression is a fine mix pensive and worried. Brian knows it well enough, remembers working it off of Justin in the blue ambiance of his bed for seven years.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say thanks for picking us up."

He wants to say more than that; Brian knows by the way he bites his lip. There was a time when he would have pulled Justin aside and fucked it out of him or pissed him off so much that he'd shout it. But now Brian fears getting too close to him because he's not just Justin anymore. He's Justin and the urchin—package deal, two for one special.

No fucking way.

So Brian simply respond with a shrug and muttered, "No problem."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The traffic into the Pitts is murder in the shitty weather, and they still have quite a way to go before they reach Deb's. Brian's head aches like he's hungover—a condition only amplified by the festive music on the radio that Justin has insisted they listen to whilst stranded on the Penn Lincoln Parkway. That whole driver-selects-the-music rule has never resonated especially well with him. By now, Brian has just come to accept the fact and spares them both the argument. Though if Justin doesn't stop humming along to "Winter Wonderland", Brian may have to strangle him.

"Justin!" Brian growls, not a minute later.

"Yeah?"

Those innocent eyes have Brian taking a deep breath and bringing it down a notch. "Could you_please_just…stop."

"Ahh, sorry."

As they reach another dead stop, Brian leans his head against the window with a _thud_. From the corner of his eye, he catches Justin looking at him, more in sympathy than in curiosity. Brian shoots him a glance—one easily expressing his irritation—and then watches as Justin bends over to rummage in that god awful diaper bag.

"Soda?" Justin asks, presenting Brian with a nearly full bottle of Coke. "Maybe the caffeine will help your head."

Brian looks at the bottle, then shrugs. "Can't fucking hurt."

"I told you ages ago that you have a caffeine problem. It can cause—"

"Save the public service announcement," Brian says quickly, before taking the Coke and drinking. "It's not sexy."

"I'm just saying that if you lay off the lattes you might be a little less moody and prone to headaches," he mutters.

"Justin."

"See? Moody."

Brian is half tempted to throw the Coke at him, but Justin ducks down to look for something else in the bag, and the moment is lost. Instead, his gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror to the stirring urchin in the back. He doesn't fucking need this. This trip is hellish enough as it is without a crying kid.

As expected, Justin hears her begin to wake up and immediately turns to talk to her in the most insufferable way imaginable. Well, it could just be that it's insufferable because he's talking to _her_and not anything particular about his tone, but Brian's nerves are still set on edge. And the situation only worsens as Brian catches Justin handing the kid a sandwich bag of Cheerios.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"She hasn't eaten since we left New York."

"You're feeding her in my Jeep?"

"Yes," Justin says tersely.

"The only thing that gets eaten in my Jeep is cock."

Justin rolls his eyes. "Stop having a queen out. You'll be rid of us soon enough."

Well where the fuck did that come from? Brian almost does a double take, mouth open and eyebrow raised. The only thing that keeps him from asking Justin what the fuck that's supposed to mean is the fact that the traffic is slowly beginning to move.

Leave it to a twink to draw that sort of conclusion. He _never_ meant to imply…he doesn't _want_… Brian huffs. Despite all efforts to the contrary, he likes being with Justin again, enjoys his overbearing, blonde boy-ass. And if it weren't for the urchin, Brian would do something, _imply_something, to try to make up for all but abandoning Justin for the past year and a half. But she is here—and, fuck, he's really going to have to remember her name—so that option isn't available to him. Still, Brian won't leave Justin with the impression that he wants rid of him.

"Look, just don't get any goddamn Cheerios on the upholstery," he groans.

Justin smiles at his concession, and Brian tries to recall a time when he hadn't given in to Justin eventually.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

By the time they pull—slide, really—into Deb's driveway, there are more Cheerios lost in the back of the Jeep than seems strictly possible, each loss having been punctuated by the urchin's "uh-oh." To his credit, Justin had been WASP-certified apologetic at first. But around the fifteenth time, they both fell into delirious, claustrophobia-induced chuckles, Brian laying his head against the steering wheel and wondering what the hell he did to deserve this as they sat on the Parkway.

The bitterly cold air is a welcome relief as Brian props open the car door. He looks over to Justin, sees him unbuckling his seat belt as he talks to what is presumably the urchin's home-wrecking mother on the phone. Somewhere in the middle of the Fort Pitt Tunnel he'd decided that _this_ was all_her_fault—he and Justin not being able to be together. If she hadn't let Justin borrow her snatch for nine months, there would be no urchin. And without the urchin, life could resume normally. Or as normal as it had ever been between them.

"Hold on a minute, Delaney," Justin says into the phone as Brian moves to get out of the Jeep. "Hey, Brian, could you grab the diaper bag for me?"

His brow furrows, mouth dropping open. "Why the fuck would I do that? I'm not carrying a fucking diaper bag, Sunshine."

Justin shoots him a withering look before tossing the bag at Brian anyway. "I'm going to have my hands full. Don't worry, you can't catch straight from it."

Getting out of the car and opening the rear door, Justin turns his attention back to the phone. "Sorry about that…What? No, just Brian being his usual charming self. Anyway, we're at Deb's now…I will. Yeah, let me know about your flight…Alright, bye, Laney."

Begrudgingly, Brian takes the bag, having learned well that there isn't much sense in challenging Justin. His head is still pounding, and in his weakened state, Brian doesn't think he has the ability to hold out in an argument.

He reaches behind the seat for his briefcase—having some ad designs for the comic store to show Michael—as Justin gets the kid out, car seat and all. Brian is glad to be rid of the thing, his part in this whole fiasco being officially over—delivering Sunshine and the urchin to Deb's for Jennifer to pick-up later. Mission complete. And after a few obligatory bites of whatever carb-loaded dish Deb's cooked up for the get together, Brian can go home and get fucked-up, making tonight a very distant memory.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"There's my grandbaby!" Deb shouts, overjoyed, not a moment after they step foot through the door.

Brian nearly groans at Deb's greeting and then notices all attention on him, his so-called friends grinning at him like he's some fucking wounded animal and they haven't eaten for days—all wide smiles and glimmering eyes. Then he remembers the urchin's diaper bag on his shoulder. He dumps it and the briefcase by the door with a muttered, "not a fucking word out of any of you," and stalks off towards the kitchen.

With him out of direct eyesight, the gang begins to fawn over the newest member of the family—all coos and baby talk—and the urchin giggles back at them, smiles a very Sunshine-y smile. _Attention whore_, Brian thinks, pouring himself some insufferably cheap whiskey.

Leaning against the counter, his eyes are drawn to Justin. Justin couldn't look prouder, just like a perfect little housewife. Brian tries to hate him for it, but can't quite get beyond the way that pride manifests itself in him. Grinning wider than he ever has, hands delicately helping the kid out of her winter get-up, watching her with sheer adoration. Brian's chest pangs, and he pours himself another finger. He's going to need it—and a lot more—if he hopes to get through dinner.

As he empties the glass, The Littlest Hustler slips into the kitchen and pokes around the refrigerator for something. Brian, for his part, tries his damnedest to ignore Ben and Mikey's stray-turned-adoptee, making a point to keep his attention drawn to Justin. He and Hunter have always had an odd dynamic, one that Brian swore would fade overtime. Especially when the kid figured out he was straight. But of course, the twerp has exceptions, and Brian just happens to be one. Not that Brian can't understand the appeal.

"So," Hunter says, popping the can of his soda, "you and Justin?"

"Me and Justin what?"

"You showed up together."

"Yeah, didn't your daddies dearest let you in on the holiday arrangements?"

"That's it?"

"That's it," Brian confirms, giving Hunter an icy glare that will hopefully cease the interrogation.

The twerp doesn't seem like he's buying it though, and, for a man who makes his living in advertising, that's a frightening thought. He tries to throw him another scathing look, especially when Hunter seems like he's about to continue this boring conversation.

It doesn't work.

"I don't believe it. He totally wants you. Just look at him."

Begrudgingly, Brian does so. His gaze drifts to where Justin sits on the couch next to Blake, the urchin standing in front of him and holding tightly to his hands. Justin's eyes are fixed on him, only shifting when Carl asks him about his flight. He knows that look, remembers it from what feels like a lifetime ago—Justin's distant admiration and affection, back from the days when he was a trick that just wouldn't get lost.

Brian can't count the number of times over the years that he's been grateful for Justin's infuriating persistence. Without Justin, he'd be an entirely different man—a far lesser one. Years later, he can see that where he never could have in those early days. Justin is the only lover he's ever had that's made a difference in him.

Of course, he'd never tell Justin that; he's not a muncher.

.

It's not long after Brian blackmails Hunter into leaving him the fuck alone that Deb calls everyone to the table. It's a tight fit nowadays with the permanent additions of Carl and Blake, only made worse by Justin and the urchin. If Lindz, Mel, and the kids had decided to come into town earlier, it would have been impossible to eat dinner in the kitchen. Briefly, Brian wonders how they're going to cope come Christmas but pushes the thought away; that's their fucking problem. He's having no part of it.

Dinner starts off well enough, Brian keeping a safe distance between himself and Justin. Emmett carries on about Ted and Blake's impending nuptials and fills Justin in on all the details before the happy homos are able to do it themselves. In fact, Brian finds the conversation somewhat tolerable, more so than he'd expected at least. It is, after all, better than the alternative—everyone getting in _his_business.

That all ends, though, when the urchin starts staring at him from her high chair, spaghetti sauce smeared on her lips and cheeks. Brian tries to ignore her, shoving a fork full of ziti in his mouth and directing his gaze anywhere that isn't near the kid. It works for a while, too, until she starts squealing and giggling at him from across the table for no fucking reason.

"Aww, isn't she just the cutest little thing," Emmett says, smiling at her indulgently. "Looks like you have another addition to your drove of admirers, Brian. She must get that from her daddy."

"Em," Justin groans.

"At least she's a little too young to take up stalking," Brian mutters, shooting Justin a knowing look. "I hear the Taylor genes are notorious for that."

"I wouldn't feel too special, Brian. She's probably just interested in you because you're a new face. At that age, they're driven by curiosity," Ben explains, grinning.

Michael suddenly looks startled. "That's right. You haven't met Elise before, have you?"

He momentarily ignores Mikey's question in favor of committing the urchin's name to memory. Elise. Elise Taylor. He absolutely has to remember this, or Justin will have a queen out of epic proportions and most likely bring up all those times Brian couldn't remember his name in those early days. Elise. Elise. _Elise_.

"Nope." And while Brian isn't feeling particularly hungry anymore, he takes another bite of his dinner in hopes of effectively ending this conversation.

"Is she getting a cold, Sunshine?" Debbie asks, as she piles more pasta on Michael's plate despite his protests. "It looks like she has a runny nose."

At that, Justin takes his napkin and wipes her nose free of snot. "It's less of a condition and more of a state of being at this point. She has my allergies, so we've been in and out of the hospital a lot."

Brian's interest is piqued at that. Justin hates hospitals, and who the hell could blame him? The last time he had to take Justin to the hospital, Justin had nearly had a panic attack. Not that he'd been in much better shape.

Hospitals always made Brian think about the spring of 2001, about Justin with a bashed in head and doctors telling the family that it was touch-and-go. More than anything, he hopes to hell that Justin has someone going to the hospital with him—the boyfriend or the mother. He shouldn't be alone.

It's the memory of that night that has Brian losing his appetite altogether. Christ, maybe Lindsay was right; maybe he _should_see someone, even after all this time. But that would be admitting to weakness, which doesn't set well with him. He'll deal. He always has.

Quietly clearing his throat, Brian slides his seat back and walks his plate to the sink without word.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Shit. He knew he should have bailed in the middle of dinner when Deb was preoccupied with motherly fussing. Brian blames the late night call from the munchers for the delay, for having him stick around long enough to allow Sonny Boy to regale him with tales of indoor kiddie soccer.

"I think," Brian begins, turning on the snowy steps, "I'm going home."

"The hell you are," Deb says in her patented get-your-ass-back-here-you-little-shit tone. "The city is practically shut down."

"I think you've been hanging around queens for one too many years, Deb. It's starting to rub off."

"Brian."

Thinning his lips, Brian brings his hand to his mouth in frustration. "Would you please just go inside? It's cold, and you're not wearing your fucking coat."

"Don't mother me," Deb says sternly, hands on her hips. "_I'm_the mother in this relationship, and you'll do what you're told. You think I spent the last twenty-five years busting my ass and looking after yours just so you could throw your life away on some icy roads?"

While Brian will never admit to this so long as he lives, part of him really loves when Deb pulls the overbearing mother act. It makes him feel loved—loved in a different way than Mikey or Lindsay, Gus or Justin could ever make him feel. He thinks it's what it must feel like to have a parent who actually gives a fuck about what happens to you, who stays awake all night worrying about what stupid stunt you've pulled.

Honestly, he's probably kept Debbie up more times than he even knows. It's also likely why Brian walks back up the steps, snow clinging to his jeans and wetting his socks. God damn, it's cold.

"Now you get back in there with your _family_and place nice. No one is leaving, so it's going to be a full house tonight."

Brian blatantly sighs so Debbie can hear—as if he's some sort of teenager again—before moving to walk back inside.

"And one more thing." Deb holds out her hand. "Give me your car keys, you little shit."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Did you come out here to pout about your keys?"

Brian turns to find Justin just a step from the doorway, shoulders shrugged to keep warm and teeth chattering. He takes another long drag off his joint before bothering to acknowledge Justin. He's not_pouting_, but he's certainly not happy that Deb confiscated his keys for the night. Honestly, she probably has a damn good point, but anytime life isn't particularly going his way, Brian feels the need to do something reckless.

"Go inside. You'll freeze your fucking ass off out here."

The crunch of the snow tells him that Justin hasn't gone back inside, much to his irritation. Instead, he sidles up next to him. Justin doesn't bother saying a word, which only serves to piss Brian off further.

"Are you deaf?" Brian barks. "I said get the hell away from me."

"Brian, that's never worked in the ten years we've known each other. What makes you think it's going to work now?"

"Wishful thinking?" he sneers.

"Besides you don't really want me gone."

Brian looks down at Justin, their eyes meeting. "How about you stop telling me what the fuck I want?"

As if telling him to suit himself, Justin just shrugs. He still doesn't bother to go inside, though, and Brian has always found him impossible to ignore.

Justin isn't exactly wrong. Being with Justin like this—in Debbie's backyard, smoking a joint and taking in the weather—reminds him of better times. The memory of the Christmas Eve after Justin's bashing softens him. They'd started throwing snow at one another and the next minute were rolling on the ground, kissing and touching and just fucking _living_. Brian supposes that's why he slips an arm around Justin's shoulder and pulls him a little closer. For now, he can pretend that there's nothing standing in the way of the two of them being together like they were.

"You missed me," Justin says, matter-of-factly.

It's the truth, but Brian rolls his eyes to keep up appearances. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Well I missed you."

Before Brian can even come up with some sort of cold remark, he feels Justin's lips—full and supple—against his own. And it's all rushing back to him—how to kiss, as if kissing Justin and kissing someone else requires two entirely different skill sets. Maybe it does to some degree, and Brian would willingly admit that he doesn't kiss tricks anyway. Old rules die hard, and Justin is in a league of his own when to comes to this.

Brian moves his mouth against Justin's, flicks his tongue over kiss-swollen lips. Justin opens for him easily, and their tongues meet in a tangle. They flick and lick, suck and dive. The soft moan that escapes Justin's throat goes straight to Brian's cock. But before Brian can make his move, Justin pulls away, leaving them both breathless.

"Don't you think your boyfriend would mind you kissing your former fiancé?" Brian asks, breathless moments later.

Justin chuckles, straightening Brian's scarf. "Damn, Deb was right. You really have been avoiding me for the past year and a half."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"James and I broke up a year ago. You'd have known that if you'd bothered to read my emails."

Well, Justin's single status doesn't change much. If Brian had wanted him, he would have gone after him regardless, the concept of monogamy being entirely lost on him. The problem was never that but the urchin—_Elise_, what-the-fuck-ever.

Brian is momentarily distracted by Justin leaning closer to him, eyes bright. "I have your number, Mr. Kinney. Don't think for a moment that I can't see through your act."

With that, Justin leaves him to his thoughts and half-smoked joint. Relighting it, he takes another drag, carefully considering whether or not he wants to speak up before Justin disappears into the house. Fuck it, what could it hurt?

"Sunshine?"

The tell-tale crunch of the snow stops. "What?"

"I may—_may_—have missed you."

Brian doesn't need to turn around to know that Justin is smiling, and it definitely doesn't surprise him to feel his own lips quirk around his joint.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>Please let me know what you thought of chapter 1. While I'll continue to write this fic regardless of reviews, I love to hear what you all think. Remember: feedback is the food of the muse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter:** 2  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 6,423  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, sexual situations  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I want to thank everyone who read and commented on chapter 1. Guys, I was overwhelmed by your support and encouragement! Thank you so much for making me feel welcome in this fandom and for bearing with me while I find these characters' voices. And another huge thank you to L for her amazing beta skills; I don't know what I would do without her.

* * *

><p>He's in the middle of face fucking Justin when he feels it—a strange tickling sensation on his head. Ignoring it, Brian moves faster, thrusting into Justin's mouth around Justin's strangled moans. His toes curl, his balls tighten, and Brian's nearly there. Just a little more. And that's it, Sunshine. Just like—<p>

_Fuck_.

He feels it again, and this time it causes him to lose his build-up altogether. Brian swats around his head, but his back begins to ache. Things don't fit together, first vaguely then gradually growing more apparent until he can see Justin sucking him off but not feel it. Goddamn. And with one more tickling sensation, Brian's heavy eyelids flutter open.

Bright blue eyes are staring at him—upside down—and Brian jumps.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he shouts, and it comes out a hell of a lot less manly than he'd like.

While his heart beats frantically in his chest, the urchin giggles from where she squats next to him in her pajamas. Just fucking giggles. Doesn't even have the god damn _decency_ to be the least bit ashamed of herself. And there she is, touching him again—her little grubby fingers in his hair and patting him like he's some fucking dog. Brian bats her hand away, sinks his head deeper into his pillow on the floor, and gives her a wary look.

"Go away," Brian says, tone quiet but firm. "Bye."

The urchin brings her tiny hand to her lips and smacks, blowing him a kiss and then waving. "Bye-bye."

"That's right. Scamper on."

Much to Brian's dismay, she doesn't. She just falls on her ass and blinks at him. The kid's more like her dad than Brian could have ever fathomed. Pretty—he'll begrudgingly give her that—and completely oblivious to being unwanted. Or maybe—in Sunshine's case—that was persistence in achieving one's goals; to this day, Brian still isn't sure which it was that kept Justin coming back.

And because he admired it in Justin, he might have been able to admire the urchin's fuck-all attitude as well—if a twelve month old could have one, that is. However, she chooses that moment to pick up a nearby ABC block—the old kind from when he and Mikey were kids—and chucks it at him. Brian scowls at her, tries his best to look intimidating, and tosses the block aside.

No, he decides, it has nothing to do with fuck-all and everything to do with being a little vegetable. All the intelligence Justin's genes were capable of producing, and he ends up with _this_.

"Your dad got a 1500 on his SATs, and you're struggling with get lost," Brian hisses. "Move. It."

He considers giving her shoulder a light nudge to get her to go, but Debbie's approaching steps sound from the kitchen. Brian doesn't particularly care to start his morning off with a lecture on not being an asshole to small children, so he refrains in favor of staring her down. The smart thing to do would be to get up and get the fuck out of this house—away from _her_—but Brian thinks that getting up after a night on the hard floor may be a bit of a process.

"Well isn't this a touching moment," Deb says with a laugh, stopping just short of where the urchin sits next to him.

Brian rolls his eyes. "Incredibly. My heart's just bursting with emotion."

Deb picks the kid up before looking down at Brian. "Yeah, I imagine so, considering it isn't much bigger than a thimble. Now get your ass out of bed. Breakfast is getting cold."

He watches Deb go back into the kitchen—the kid still staring at him from over Deb's shoulder—and then sits up. His back—as anticipated—is a fucking mess. Brian twists, rubs his neck, rolls his shoulders, all to no avail. Thirty-nine is too—dare he say it—_old_ to be camping out on the floor, especially with only a sleeping bag for cushioning. He should have taken the risk to drive home; his back couldn't be any more fucked up if he'd gotten in a car accident. Barring he hadn't died in the process, of course. But then again—at this point—death by car crash might have been the ideal solution to all his troubles in life. He was, after all, dangerously close to forty.

Brian had imagined forty a long time ago. When he was fresh out of college, he'd thought he would never see it because who the fuck wants to get old? Better to die young than waste away. But then the cusp of thirty had come along and brought with it Gus and Justin—interestingly enough on the same night. Thirty seemed a little more manageable—_most_ of the time—from then on. And once not too many years ago—when he'd been resigned to the fact that he couldn't be a twenty year old club boy forever—he'd imagined facing forty with a blond ball-and-chain.

Justin would have conspired with Emmett to throw some cheesy party had they still been together. His friends would have been there—at Britin, of course, because that's where they would have lived—and he'd have been force fed far-too-sweet cake. Naturally—so he didn't disappoint anyone—Brian would have been in a pissy mood all day. However, his big secret would have been that he didn't mind it so much—not the getting old, but being with everyone. And most especially Justin.

That's not a realistic vision to hold onto any longer. There is no he and Justin, no unconventional, undefined ball-and-chain-hood. And there won't ever be because Justin had to fucking go and have a kid, satisfy all his breeder urges. If it hadn't been for _her_, Brian imagines himself spending the greater part of Justin's time in the Pitts seducing him—back into _their_ bed, _their_ house, and _their_non-relationship.

She is here, though, and Brian can't quite make sense of what to do with the mess. Running seems like the best option since he's a master of avoidance and denial. But, one sleep-blurred glance at Justin's pajama-clad ass last night when Justin had woken up with the urchin makes Brian second guess himself. His dick having reigned free over every aspect of his life for so long, it's hard to say no to any prospect of fucking Justin now. Maybe, Brian thinks, he'll allow himself to settle for a homecoming fuck, or one last goodbye.

When Debbie screeches at him from the kitchen for a second time, Brian takes to his feet and pads his way across the room. It's occupied only by Deb, Carl, and the urchin who has just been contained in her high chair. He pulls out his own chair and eases down into it, an uncomfortable ache pinching along his spine.

From overtop the morning newspaper, Carl laughs. "It's hell to get old, isn't it?"

Brian would probably have something to say about that if it had come from anyone but Carl. The detective's grown on him over the years, in part because of how well he treats Deb. At times he almost feels like the closest thing to a real father Brian has ever had, but in a definite hands-off sort of way. Carl's the sort of person he could go to if he needed some very confidential advice, and he has on one or two occasions. Simple things, like fathering tips because Brian sure as hell has no idea how to be one; his own had been a piss poor example. So Carl helps with that, and Brian keeps his snide remarks to himself. It's a silent agreement that's worked well for them so far.

Deb sets a plate in front of him heaping with fats and carbs—fried hash browns, bacon, eggs over-easy, butter-soaked toast. Brian stares at it for a moment, trying to calculate how many extra hours he's going to need at the gym to work this and last night's dinner off. However long it is, he can't fucking afford to stick around for lunch.

Begrudgingly, Brian takes a bite of toast and, swallowing, asks, "Where is everyone?"

Deb's brow furrows as she pauses in front of the stove, as if trying to make a mental list. "Michael and Ben ran to the store. Emmett and Hunter are out back shoveling the walk and dicking around in the snow. And, Ted and Blake haven't been down yet. I figure they're probably fucking."

"What about her owner?" Brian asks, nodding in the urchin's direction.

"Oh, Sunshine's outside cleaning the Cheerios out of your Jeep." Then Deb shoots him a withering look. "And you're not going to score any points—or ass, for that matter—being mean to that baby."

Brian wrinkles his nose. _That baby_ is currently covered from nose to fingers in oatmeal, her small spoon clutched in her hand. It only serves to remind him—especially after that fucking hot dream—what getting involved again with Justin, even for as long as a week, would entail. A messy, vegetable-headed urchin hanging around? He'd rather abstain from fucking until the New Year than deal with that.

"Speaking of scoring ass," Deb prompts, giving him one of those frighteningly familiar looks.

Carl quickly and awkwardly clears his throat—as he often does when the topic of taking it up the ass comes up—and stands. "Alright, this sounds like a mother-son conversation. I think I'll go help the boys in the back."

He's half-tempted to beg Carl not to leave him alone with Debbie while she's in one of her Tuna Casserole Moods, but he can't work up enough humility to do so before Carl is out the door. Suddenly, they're alone together, just the three of them—him, Deb, and the kid. Somehow, Brian thinks the odds aren't in his favor.

"Have you and Sunshine talked?" Deb asks, taking the seat across from him, next to the urchin's high chair.

"Deb, I don't have any weed on me—much to my annoyance—and you didn't make the fucking casserole, so this conversation that I think we're going to have can't happen."

"I asked if you talked with Sunshine."

Christ. Judging from the way her eyes are boring holes through him, she's not going to fucking quit until they have this little heart-to-heart. If he'd known that picking Justin up would entail sleeping on the goddamn floor followed by a morning ass-reaming—and not the positive, life-affirming kind—he wouldn't have allowed himself to be talked into it.

"What would I have talked to Justin about?"

"Oh I don't know. Fucking checkers." She sighs. "Look, honey, I know you, and I know, sure as I'm sitting here, that you love Justin. But he doesn't need you showing up and tugging at his heart strings, understand?"

Why do they pull this goddamn shit? It's always _him_ hurting Justin and rarely the other way around. This isn't on him, not this time. If anything, it would be Justin having his cake and wanting to eat it too—wanting both the urchin and him. And if Justin wants to eat his cake, fine. He can eat anything he'd like as far as Brian is concerned; it's not as if Brian's unwilling to fuck him. But Justin can't have the _whole_ cake; that much, Brian won't allow. And that's no one else's goddamn business but theirs. So everyone else can just butt the fuck out.

"This has nothing to do with you, Deb."

"The hell it doesn't. You may have disappeared from Sunshine's life ever since he got the news about Elise, but that doesn't mean that everyone else did. He's had a rough year, Brian. If you love him as much as I believe you do, you'll let him know what your intentions are."

Brian, briefly, does wonder what sort of problems Justin is having. Not that having a goddamn kid isn't a big enough one. Having been out of touch with him for so long, he supposes it could be any number of things.

Instinctively, he worries about Justin's health, but Justin looks good, and if something had really been wrong, Jennifer would have said something. And it sure as hell couldn't be about money. Out of touch or otherwise, Justin has to know that he would give him anything he needs. If the little shit_is_ struggling, though, Brian's going to have his balls for not coming to him. Pride becomes significantly less attractive as the situation turns dire.

Having heard enough about intention and having dealt with this happy homo family long enough to have himself fucking canonized, Brian pushes back his chair. He expects Deb to challenge him in some way, but she just sits there, seemingly uncertain.

"I think I'm going to go," Brian says.

"You've barely touched your breakfast." Deb looks suddenly concerned. "Brian…"

"I'm fine, Ma."

"You know I didn't mean—"

"I know."

And he does, which is why he gives her a quick kiss to the cheek. This isn't Deb getting on his case; not really. It's her trying to protect her boys, just as she always has. And Brian appreciates her looking out for Justin. He just wishes she knew by now that she doesn't have to protect Justin from _him_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

When he finally reaches the Jeep, Brian is rewarded with the sight of gorgeous, blond boy ass as Justin leans into the backseat. And what a fucking sight it is. He admires it for a few spare moments, remembering how it felt in the palms of his hands, how it tasted the first time he'd ever rimmed Justin. One body part, so very many vivid—delectable—memories. However, his nostalgia is promptly cut short when Justin turns around, catching him in the act.

Justin chuckles. "See something you like?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

They share a smile, despite all Brian's efforts to stop it. At this point, he really ought to know better than to try to resist; Sunshine's smiles are notoriously contagious, and not even the great Brian Kinney is immune. With a shake of his head, Justin turns back to the Jeep with—Brian detects—a slight wiggle of his ass. Fucking tease.

"What do you think you're doing, Sunshine?"

"Cleaning your Jeep."

"No shit." Brian leans against the car, arms folded over his chest. "You don't have to do that. I'll have it taken care of."

"I believe the concession was that Elise could eat in the Jeep if it remained clean. Which, as I'm sure you remember, it didn't," Justin says. "Anyway, it's not a problem. I'm almost finished, so just give me a sec."

Since when had Justin grown up? Not that he hasn't always been mature, but Brian remembers the days when they had lived together, recalls all the times he'd told Justin to pick his shit up or get out. Justin had never listened then, probably knowing the threat for what it was—empty. Brian's not sure why he's being taken so seriously now. Had Justin forgotten? Or had _he_ done or said something to_make_ Justin forget?

"Are you alright?" Brian asks, both because of this display of responsibility and because of what Deb had said.

Justin looks at him curiously, as if he expects him to be stoned out of his mind. "What?"

"I asked if you were alright."

"Why would you think something's wrong?"

"Sunshine, spare me the bullshit."

He doesn't know what sort of answer he's going to get, especially when Justin turns away from him only to turn back a few moments later. Justin's expression is one of mixed emotions, as if he's wary of opening up and simultaneously yearning to. Brian's not unfamiliar with the sentiments coming from him, but it's been a long time since he's sensed them.

"Truthfully, I'm a little overwhelmed," Justin says simply.

"With your artwork?"

"No, with my life." Justin laughs, then sobers a little. "I'm essentially a single father to a very mobile and demanding one year old daughter, living five hours away from my family. She leaves me very little time to paint, which has in turn adversely affected our finances. And when I do get the spare time to work on my art, I'm constantly worrying about how she's doing."

Well fuck. He asked for the truth and Justin sure as hell gave it to him. Maybe it's a sign of how much Brian's matured over the years that he's not shooting off some cruel comment about making beds and lying in them. He hates hearing that Justin is still making sacrifices, five years after he made the biggest sacrifice of his life thus far—leaving his life and family behind for the art world. As Brian suspected, Sunshine had taken New York by storm—became a big fucking success—in a relatively short amount of time. And Brian had been happy for him; he'd never wanted Justin to suffer or struggle again. When they'd parted a couple years back, things were good, and like the idiot he is, he'd assumed that they'd just remained that way.

"And before you tell me that you told me so and I brought all of this onto myself," Justin continues, "I want you to know that I've created a lot of things in twenty-seven years, but Elise is by far the one I'm most proud of."

"I know," Brian says, and that's the honest truth; he has Gus and not even his most brilliant copy could compare to him. "And I wasn't going to tell you that I told you so."

Justin seems almost pleased to hear it, awarding him with a small smile before leaning into the backseat once more. Brian wishes there was some way he could help, look for a nanny in New York to watch the urchin or something. Not for the kid's sake, but for Sunshine's. He knows Justin, though. It's not finances keeping him from finding her a sitter; it's the fact that he doesn't want her raised by strangers. Who could blame him? He probably never understood how much he'd be sacrificing to give the kid a life like that.

"Alright, that's the last of them," Justin announces, taking a step back from the Jeep.

When their eyes meet, Brian can't be bothered to take in anything else going on around him—not the cars inching up the street nor Emmett and Hunter's shouts and laughter from the backyard. Ninety-five percent of the time, Brian's world revolves around his dick. But in rare instances, it does shift.

Like now, to only Justin.

"I should be going," Brian says with little conviction.

He sees the tell-tale signs, leans in to meet Justin's mouth halfway. He shouldn't be doing this—planting ideas of reviving their non-relationship in Justin's little blonde head—but fuck it. It feels too fucking good to pull back. Brian expects the kiss to turn heated—anticipates tongue and teeth, hands and moans. But Justin does little more than press his lips firmly against Brian's, moves ever so slightly, and withdraws.

It feels like goodbye—tender, slow, and loaded with things left unsaid.

"What was that for, Sunshine?"

"The last time we stood next to your car like this, I didn't see you for two and a half years." Justin grins, caressing Brian's cheek. "I thought I ought to get it while you're good for it."

"I'm going to be around."

"No, you won't. You hate the holidays. You'll make your cameo appearance for Gus, probably when I'm not around—don't bother to deny it, and relax because I'm not angry—and that'll be it. I bet you have some exotic vacation lined up already."

Brian resents that a little, even if it's altogether not off the mark. He _does_ hate the holidays—though admittedly they've grown on him since Gus—and he has no intention of playing musical houses to appease everyone's holiday plans. It's not as if he doesn't want to see Justin; he does. But spending time together would only complicate things further. Further than they already are, considering Brian has thought of pounding into Justin's ass no fewer than five hundred and seventy-two times since waking up this morning.

"I'll leave your Christmas gift here since Deb will raise hell if you don't stop by," Justin says, stepping away from him.

"Hey, I'll be here, alright? It's a promise."

It leaves his mouth before he really understands what he's said, maybe spurred on by the sight of Justin moving backwards towards the house. Brian's always been terrible with goodbyes, would perhaps do anything in his power to avoid them. And the way Justin's face momentarily lights up at the thought of seeing each other again—just before it fades into concern—lessens his regret of the commitment.

"Brian…"

"You're going to have to put up with my holiday cheer, Sunshine."

"I question your cheeriness, but alright."

Justin's grin is all Brian needs to see to know that he's won this little argument. Won it, but not entirely sure if he's come up on top or set himself up for a miserable few days. He'd better visit his disco-pharmacologist just in case.

As Justin heads back into Deb's, Brian gets into his now-clean Jeep, remnants of his time with Justin—and the urchin—completely gone. It's almost as if it had never happened, as if it'd been some sort of fucking dream. It wouldn't be the first time, and having spent so long without Justin, it's hard to believe he's back. Brian checks his side mirror just to be sure, watching as Justin climbs the front steps.

Fuck.

Five hundred and seventy-three.

. 

* * *

><p>.<p>

The wonders of four hundred dollar shower heads really would never cease. Brian dips his head under the stream of water, shifts so that the firm, pulsating spray beats against his stiff back. It feels fucking fantastic to be home, especially after a night spent in the close quarters of Deb's living room. So much so, in fact, that the sense of emptiness pervading these four walls—as it has for five years—only hits him midway through his shower. And even then, it only slightly taints his homecoming.

His thoughts drift and stray far into last night when, in his restlessness, he watched Justin sleep, curled up with the urchin on the couch. Sleep has always had a way of de-aging Justin—Brian would know, given all the nights he spent tracing all the curves and angles of Justin's face—and even pushing the dreaded thirty, he still looks less than legal. It's no more incentive for Brian than it ever has been—his interest never having been defined by Justin's young age—but it does remind him of simpler times.

He'll blame those fond memories for his hand straying downwards towards his hardening cock. Not that Brian ever needed a fucking excuse for jerking it before, but somehow it's different when he envisions blond hair and a blissfully tight ass nowadays. It makes him look like a pussy—pining away after a man he has no realistic future with anymore—which is why having a reason suddenly matters.

Hazel eyes flutter shut as his fingers close around his cock. Brian strokes, thrill racing through him to pool in his lower belly. He has this down to a fucking art form—has ever since fourteen—could pull himself off in no time at all. But, the image of Justin—burned into his mind—has Brian slowing his pace and tipping his head back.

With the thought of Justin's wet, warm mouth swallowing him, his breath hitches, his cock leaks. Brian swirls his thumb around his head, toes curling and nose twitching from the rush of it. His thoughts wander to pounding into Justin's ass, to Justin riding him—bareback, though only ever in his wildest dreams. It has him moaning, gasping for air, but the humidity makes it hard to breathe. Goddamn. He imagines what it would feel like—Justin's tight little ass enveloping him—and the mere thought has his balls suddenly tight, his orgasm slamming into him.

For moments, Brian can only _feel_, the world slipping away from him. But then it comes back, hard and cold, and he shudders a breath. As if suddenly ashamed, he quickly rinses away all traces of his cum and rubs his face beneath the cooling stream of water.

He can't believe he just fucking did that. Not the jerking off, not even the jerking off to Justin. But the fact that he'd come so quickly at the thought of having Justin _bareback_. Again, with the impossibilities—first being with Justin at all and now being with Justin raw. He has to stop this; it's fucking pathetic.

Despite the shitty weather, Brian decides that it's a Babylon sort of night for sure. Nothing chases away his troubled mind like a trick. At least, most of the time. Sometimes, much to his disappointment, a blonde will look enough like Justin or someone will give head enough like Justin that things start to blur for him.

But that's just a risk he's going to have to take.

.

Later that evening as Brian's just about to pick up his keys to leave, he catches the light on his answering machine blinking. He wonders if he wants to bother with it now; it's probably Deb or Mikey calling to check up on him. As if he needs their goddamn mothering; he can take care of himself. Ultimately he decides to get it over with since it could—though improbably—be something of actual importance.

Pressing the button, Lindsay and Gus' voices fill the room with a, "Hi, Dad!"

Despite himself, Brian grins. He'd never thought he'd ever want to hear that dreaded, three letter word used in reference to him, but now he never really tires of it. Brian's made a lot of questionable decisions in his various inebriated states, but letting Linds talk him into giving up his swimmers by far ranks as the best.

"We just wanted to let you know that we switched to an earlier flight next Thursday. Michael and Ben are going to pick us up at the airport around noon. I forwarded the flight information to you just a little while ago," Lindsay explains.

"Yeah, and, Dad, Mom says it's okay if I stay the night with you, but I hafta ask first. Call me back 'cause it's super important! Bye. Oh, love you. Bye."

The message cuts out there. Brian deletes it from the machine and works over his schedule for that Thursday in his head. He has a brief, afternoon meeting with Brown Athletics and then with his Babylon staff in the early evening. Brown is pressing—these finishing touches on the Super Bowl ads are going to be the death of him—but Babylon can fucking wait. Nothing comes before Gus if he can at all help it.

Picking up his cell, Brian speed dials Linds and Melanie's house. It rings and rings before Gus picks it up, Linds' admonishment of _Honey, what did we tell you about answering the phone_ drifting through from the background.

"It's _Dad's_ number, Mom," Gus explains, and then, "Hi, Dad! Did you hear our message?"

"I sure did, Sonny Boy."

. 

* * *

><p>.<p>

Monday nights at Babylon don't exactly draw the biggest or sexiest crowd of the week, but Brian makes it work. He doesn't constantly prowl around the dance floor looking for his next trick like he once had, though he definitely makes a list as he goes about business as usual. He'd done the same last night—after he'd _finally_ gotten Linds and Gus off the phone—and picked up a hot blond for his trouble.

He's eyeing up a fuckable enough brunet from the catwalk—nothing to write home about; a six, maybe—when he spots Emmy Lou walking up the steps. It takes Brian a second or two longer to notice Justin trailing behind him. He looks so out of place here after all this time, and the thought does occur to Brian that maybe he's just seeing things, mistaking someone for Justin. But judging from the leers of half the patrons in Babylon, this isn't some drug induced dream; only very few people could turn heads like that.

It's moments later when Emmett and Justin realize he's here—Emmett's face bordering between pleased and wary and Justin's pleasantly surprised. As Brian shifts to face them, Emmett says something to Justin, pats his shoulder, and comes back the way they came. Justin watches him go before approaching Brian.

"What are you doing here?" Brian shouts over the music.

"I'm told this is the hottest club in Pittsburgh." Justin smirks. "Inside sources say the owner can be a real cunt though."

"Inside sources can shut their ungrateful mouths."

Justin leans against the railing, cocking his hip in a way that makes Brian think Justin's coming onto him. He'd be a liar—especially after yesterday afternoon—if he didn't admit to moving in a little closer to Justin. It doesn't feel nearly as inappropriate here—at Babylon—as it had at Deb's. After all, no one comes to Babylon to visit family for the holidays. Here, it's all about the fuck.

"Emmett invited me along. He said you probably wouldn't be here tonight."

"So _you're_ avoiding _me_ now?" Brian asks, more in jest than anything. "Sorry to disappoint you, Sunshine."

Justin seems like he doesn't know quite what to say to that, which amuses Brian. Then, it looks as if he's about to launch into some sort of apology at having given Brian that impression. To stop that before it even begins, Brian slips his arm around Justin's slim shoulders and pulls Sunshine towards him.

"You look hot. What's the occasion? Shouldn't you be at home with your bouncing bundle of joy?"

"I know, to you, full-time parenthood is a death sentence, but that's not the case. Every once in awhile, even we dads get to let our hair down and have some fun." Justin pokes Brian's chest. "And I'm baby free for the next twelve hours or so thanks to Grammy and am going to fucking enjoy it. Preferably on the dance floor. So you can either join me or I'll find myself another dance partner."

Justin plants a quick kiss on his jaw before cruising his options as he moves towards the stairs, and Brian will be damned before he's going to follow that twink. Who the hell does Justin think he is, coming into _Brian's_ domain and making threats? Why the fuck should he care if Justin finds someone else to dance with? He shouldn't; he's not some muncher. But—much to his complete disappointment in himself—he does. And how is it that Justin is the only person in the fucking universe that can get him this incensed with one little comment? It's a gift, Brian thinks, to be able to be so goddamn infuriating. Infuriating _and_ sexy.

Brian supposes that it has a lot to do with the latter that he goes after Justin, stopping him on the steps with his hand. He reads the victory in blue eyes, the _gotcha_, the echoes of one boy's _Brian Kinney gives a shit_. And yeah, maybe he does.

"I'm the best dancer in this place. Don't waste your time."

"You? That's a frightening thought."

Brian scowls, following Justin down the stairs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Brian, your dancing is for shit."

"Is this a recently developed opinion? Because I don't seem to recall you—or anyone else—ever complaining before."

Justin turns to him and whispers into his ear, "That's because it doesn't matter. You're Brian Fucking Kinney. No one gives a shit if you can dance."

When they find a place on the dance floor, Brian winds his arms around Justin's shoulders as Justin slips his around Brian's waist. They move together in a well worn rhythm, familiar despite all the time they've spent far apart, away from Babylon. It's slow, despite the quick _thumpa-thumpa_ of the music, as if moving too quickly will make it all unravel. Brian wants to cherish this—the feel of silky blond locks slipping between his fingers, the touch of baby soft skin against his own. Who knows how long he has to keep hold to it, to Justin, to _this_.

The feel of Justin's hips slipping against his, the pressure of his hard cock against Brian's thigh, has Brian pulling them closer together. Their lips meet easily, first together and then travelling along necks and chins, ears and cheeks. Brian's careful to keep his eyes half-lidded, wonders what might happen if he catches Justin's gaze. Nothing—and everything—good, for certain. He knows Justin, understands what Justin's hands moving up and down his body means, what Justin pressing so tightly against him signals.

"Sunshine."

As Justin looks up at him, Brian wonders how to continue. He wouldn't particularly mind fucking Justin's brains out tonight, but there's no way in hell he's going to without establishing the rules. Because fucking Justin isn't about renewing whatever sort of relationship they had before. Telling Justin that, though—that whatever might happen between them tonight is just a fuck—seems like they're taking a hundred steps backward. Brian guesses it will all come down to phrasing, and as an ad man, he should have no problem with that. But this isn't some pitch; it's Justin.

"Brian, what's wrong?"

Sunshine's brow furrows, his lips part, and Brian feels completely exposed under that gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it abruptly when he realizes he doesn't have a goddamn clue how to approach this, which leaves him with only two options—just get it out there by whatever means possible or run. Neither seems particularly preferable.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Justin says, fingers playing with the ends of Brian's hair affectionately. "If something's up…"

"That _is_ the slight complication."

Brian's eyes flick down towards their hard cocks and Justin's follows. When they meet again, Justin looks momentarily confused, and Brian halts their movement. Realization must dawn on him then because he tightens his hold on Brian.

"I didn't think you'd be opposed."

"I'm not opposed." Brian raises an eyebrow. "Do I feel opposed?"

"No, but if you're not comfortable…" Justin pulls back, his expression worried. "Look, I shouldn't have assumed. It's just whenever you and I get together it feels like it always has, like I'm seventeen and madly in love. Especially here. It's easy for me to forget about everything else for awhile, you know? I'm really sorry."

It makes perfect sense to him because in a lot of ways Justin makes him feel the same way. Maybe not seventeen, and _madly_ might be too strong an adjective, but there is something about Justin that makes all the other shitty details about their lives disappear. What's between them—no matter what—seems untouchable. Their feelings have stayed the same, as he had promised Justin they would after they called off the wedding. Everything else but he and Justin and the love that they share can all be chalked up to time—boyfriends, tricks, kids, all of it. And here they stand.

"Sorry's bullshit. And this isn't about being uncomfortable. I just want you to know what to expect if we fuck."

Justin laughs softly, exasperated. "That's what's bothering you? You were really freaking me out. Brian, I've read the Kinney Operating Manual. In fact, I wrote the revised edition. I get it. I really do."

Brian can fucking believe it. After everything he and Justin have been through—a lot of it unpleasant—he would expect Justin to be able to understand exactly what he's trying to say without him having to voice it. It's just that the Blond Twink Clause that applied to most of his rules doesn't apply here, not with the life Justin's chosen for himself. And he wants Justin to understand and accept that before he chooses to go through with this.

"And knowing that you still want to come up to the VIP lounge?"

"I was going up to the VIP suite tonight anyway, Mr. Kinney," Justin announces, pulling Brian towards him. "You're just an upgrade."

"The very best accommodations Babylon has to offer."

Brian feels Justin smile against his lips as they kiss, his worry subsiding. Then Sunshine takes him by the wrist as he has a million times before, and they slip away into the private room.

.

Pushing inside Justin is everything he remembers it to be—hot, tight, and mind blowing as hell. Despite the number of times they've done this, it's still a struggle to form coherent thoughts at first, awash in sensation. Justin moans and grinds into him, though, and it's enough to pull him out of his state of blissful limbo and into cruise control.

He has Sunshine bent over one of the couches, his hips snapping against his perfect ass. And this isn't anything like anyone he's had in the past two years. Brian's concern with Justin is that Justin gets as good as he gives. And fuck does Justin know how to give. Give, and then some. He never worries about that with tricks; they're throw-aways.

Brian sinks his fingers into blonde hair and tugs as he thrusts. The whimper he manages to coax from Justin's throat is a prize well earned. Justin leans back against Brian—the shift taking Brian by surprise and sends a pulse of fucking _brilliance_ up his cock—and kisses frantically along his jaw line.

It only occurs to Brian after Justin coats his hand with cum that he shouldn't be so fucking quick about this. He doesn't have more than a few spare hours with Sunshine tonight before it's back to the real world, and who the fuck knows when they'll be able to do this again.

That's why Brian slows his frantic thrusts despite the ache of his balls, why his lips seek out Justin's limp body and sweat-slicked skin. He struggles to will his orgasm into submission. He wants this to fucking _last_. Thankfully, he has age on his side. Age and the familiarity of Justin's body—the meaning of every twitch, every sigh—which at this point, Brian thinks he knows better than Justin himself. 

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote:<strong> Thanks for reading, everyone! Comments are love and food for the muse! I'm happy to report that I'm already 2,000 words into Ch 3, and I'm really looking forward to sharing this next chapter with you. I think it's an exciting one!


	3. Chapter 3

**Pairing(s):** Brian/Justin, Ben/Michael, Mel/Lindsay, Ted/Blake, Deb/Carl**  
><strong>**Summary:**Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is far more permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame. [Post 5.13]

**Chapter:** 3  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 8,378  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, sexual situations, brief mention of past Justin/other  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Sorry for the small delay in posting this chapter. Real life got in the way of both mine and my beta's lives. I hope the wait was worth it, and thank you all, again, for your support!

* * *

><p>Brian stretches in bed, working the sleepiness from his limbs, before settling his arms around Justin again. He buries his nose in blond hair as Sunshine nestles in closer to him, barely awake. While it's not exactly their well-established morning routine, Brian somehow talks himself into settling for <em>this<em>. It's not fucking cuddling; he doesn't _do_cuddling. But this sort of lying next to each other, legs tangled and arms draped, isn't so bad.

Justin's breathing turns slow and heavy again as he drifts back to sleep. As his fingers run up and down Justin's back, Brian glances over at the alarm clock—8:24. He's not late for work yet—if a CEO _can_be late—but he'll never make it in on time if he doesn't get his ass up now. But, said ass being possessively cupped by Justin's hand, it's not happening. He'll have to call in to Cynthia as soon as he can maneuver around a lifeless, boneless Justin.

When his fingers trail across Justin's tail bone, Brian hears Justin sigh and feels him smile against his collarbone. Grinning to himself, he repeats the movement and that sigh turns suddenly needy. Justin fidgets into a half-woken state—fully woken in certain areas—while Brian dips a finger between Justin's cheeks.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Brian says, all sexy-sweet.

Justin gasps, pained. "Shit. I'm sore. Stop that, Brian."

Reluctantly, Brian withdraws his finger. "Do you know what that means?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not getting your ass pounded frequently enough," he whispers into Justin's ear. "It's a shame to let such a thing of beauty go to waste. A real tragedy."

"And the major character death in this work happens to be my sex life," Justin mumbles against his chest.

"Mmm, not if I have anything to say about it."

Brian rolls them over, Justin now trapped securely beneath him. Their eyes meet as Brian runs his fingers through Justin's hair and leans in for a kiss. Moaning, Justin opens his mouth to Brian's tongue. Tongues tangle, push, seek as Brian presses Justin further into the bed. When Justin's nails dig into his back, Brian gasps, breaking off their kiss.

"Please tell me you don't have to be anywhere anytime soon," Brian says, nipping at Justin's jaw.

"Mom has a Grammy day planned for her and Eli, so not really."

Briefly, Brian thinks to ask why in the hell Justin's given his kid a boy's name for a nickname, but then realizes he doesn't give a fuck. Not when it comes to her. What he decidedly does give a fuck about is Justin talking about the urchin while in _his_bed. In a desperate attempt to get Sunshine to shut up, Brian kisses his way down Justin's body and takes his cock deep into his mouth.

Justin sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden movement and holds it as Brian begins to suck him off. Brian's missed this—having Justin's cock heavy on his tongue, taking in the heady taste. He could have never anticipated wanting to suck one cock, drive into one ass for the rest of his life—maybe he still can't, not completely—but Justin brings him close to imagining it.

Sunshine exhales, shuddering. "Brian, fuck."

"I thought you said your ass was too sore," he says, releasing Justin's dick with a wet _pop_.

"Not what I—ah!—meant."

As Brian begins to suck with abandon, Justin squirms, his thighs tense as if trying to resist bucking into Brian's mouth. Brian can tell by the way Justin's hips quiver beneath his hands. It's almost a game for him, seeing how far he can push before Justin completely unravels.

"Brian," Justin pants. "_Brian_."

When Justin struggles to prop himself up on his elbows, Brian's eyes flick up to see what's wrong. By the look of Sunshine's heated gaze, nothing. But as Brian shifts to return to his blow job, Justin's fingers on his cheek stop him.

"_My _ass is sore, but…"

Brian snorts. "In your dreams, Sunshine."

"Brian!" Justin flops back down.

Foreseeing Justin's mood going south—and not the kind of south that Brian usually prefers—he crawls back up to Justin, licking and biting him every so often to keep him pliable. Hazel and blue meet briefly before Sunshine looks away. Brian grins, kissing the corner of Justin's mouth.

"You're not going to waste valuable fucking time pouting, are you?"

Justin peers up at him. "I could ask the same of you."

"Stop being a little twat."

Shifting, Brian rolls his hips, their cocks aligning perfectly. He'll give Justin props for trying to resist at first, but he's not known as the hottest fuck on Liberty Avenue for nothing. Soon Justin's snapping and slipping against him, and Brian's confident that he's won this battle.

At least until one of their cells vibrates.

He tries his best to just fucking ignore it. It's probably Cynthia wanting to know where the hell he is. But Justin seems much less willing to let it go, trying to wriggle his way from underneath him to find his phone. Brian stops him with a forceful kiss, smothering his protest between their lips. His hips move more quickly against Justin, but Sunshine isn't having it.

"I have to see if that's me."

When he finally frees himself from most of Brian's weight, Justin reaches over the side of the bed for his phone. The moment that it's confirmed that it is Justin's and not his, Brian groans inwardly.

"Don't answer it." Brian makes purposefully needy eyes at him. "Please. I'll let you fuck me." Seeing that it's not quite working as well as it should, he nuzzles Justin and whispers, "I want you to fuck me, Justin. I want your dick in my ass. I want to feel you—"

"Look, I appreciate the sentiments and would be more than happy to take you up on the offer, but I have to answer the fucking phone first. Something might be wrong with Elise."

His lips thinning at the denial, Brian rolls over to the other side of the bed and fumes. God damn, mother fucking… He glares at Justin as he sits up and redials whoever called. As amazing at last night was, he shouldn't have gotten involved again, even if said involvement began and ended at fucking. And after as many times as Justin has left him, he should be used to this sort of rejection. But he isn't, and it hurts like hell.

Just as he moves to get up and finish himself off in the bathroom—giving Justin time to get the fuck out—he feels Justin's fingers lace through his. Despite his best efforts, Brian can't stop himself from looking over at Justin, whose apologetic gaze is fixed on him.

"Hey, Mom," Justin says into the phone. "No, sorry, I didn't make it to the phone in time. Is something wrong?...Shit…No, it's not a problem…Mom, don't apologize…"

His even tone tells Brian that nothing is wrong with the urchin, which gives him a little hope. But then comes the disappointment, the sorry look in his eyes, and Brian knows that this morning has officially ended. He really is tempted to run away from this, from both Justin and these lesbianic feelings. Justin's fingers tighten their hold on him, though, anchoring him in place.

Smiling, Justin says, "Yeah, it was nice…I stayed over at Brian's…No, I…_Mom_." Justin shifts the end of the phone away from his mouth and, blushing, tells him, "Mom sends her love."

"Tell your mother she has shit timing."

"Brian sends his love, too…Yeah…No, just give me time to get dressed and I'll head home…Alright, bye."

Tossing the phone into the mass of waded up sheets and duvet, Justin turns to Brian. He looks away immediately, trying to urge Justin to get up and get out before he becomes some sentimental idiot. But Justin doesn't and instead leans over to kiss him tenderly on the lips.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry's—"

"—bullshit. I know."

"Stop finishing my sentences."

Justin lies down next to him, fucking cuddles up. Brian shoots him a look, but he seems altogether unfazed by it. Not that that's a newsflash. It's been ages since Justin's been properly ruffled by him.

"Some big shot client wants my mom to show him some properties at ten, and he's not taking no for an answer. I have to get home so she can leave."

"Then leave."

"Not until you stop being a pissy little bitch about this. Brian, I don't want to go. Trust me."

"I said leave."

He frowns, and Brian thinks that maybe he should stop punishing Sunshine for this. Because Brian gets that Justin would rather stick around, fucking and getting fucked by him. But he can't, and all because of the kid. He knew he was fighting a losing battle when it came to her. But, he wants Justin—he can own up to that now—and he doesn't want to have to share.

"You know I lo—"

"Don't, Sunshine."

"And you love me too," Justin continues, persistent little shit that he is. "You said so last night."

"It doesn't count if you're shooting your load."

It's apparently enough to piss Justin off because he rolls out of bed, pinching Brian's side in the process. Brian yelps, scowling as Justin quickly gathers up his clothes and throws them on. He still looks good in them this morning, thoroughly fucked and deliciously disheveled. Brian's softening cock twitches as proof, as if he needed it.

When Justin finishes, he stands at the side of the bed. Brian doesn't know what to say to him. Everything seems to fall short of ideal. Being an ass isn't going to get him anywhere, though he'd like to come up with some sort of remark just to make Justin feel his disappointment. And telling him he had a great time would be honest, but fails to keep up with appearances. In the end, he just let's Sunshine make the move.

"I guess I'll see you around."

Brian shrugs. "Probably."

..

After Justin leaves and he puts in a call to the office to cancel his morning appointments, Brian takes a long shower. He tries to scrub the remnants of the past twelve hours away, dragging the soap roughly across his skin. The water runs cold before Brian ever feels cleansed.

As he's walking back into the bedroom, his cell begins to ring. One look tells him it's Mother Taylor's house phone. He wonders why the hell she's calling him—maybe to tear him a new asshole for fucking her baby boy, though Brian had thought they'd gotten past that ages ago. Women are a curious breed, though, and Brian readily admits to having limited knowledge of their inner workings.

"Hello?"

"_Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I think I left my cell there._"

Justin. Christ, and just when he thought he'd gotten rid of him. Pulling a cigarette from his case along with a lighter, Brian sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn't bother thinking up a response until he's taken a long drag off of it.

"And what would you like me to do about that, Sunshine?"

"_If you're still at the loft, can you look around for it?_" Justin huffs.

"I suppose," he drawls, acting put out, as he begins to move the pillows around.

"_Thanks._"

Having no luck in the pillows, Brian searches at the foot of the bed and wonders if maybe Justin hadn't left his phone on purpose. Not that Justin ever needed some pathetic excuse to come calling again in the past. And considering the thing is practically attached to his hand every waking minute of the day—or at least it had been when they were not-dating—Brian doubts he could deal with the withdrawal. As he lifts the sheets on Justin's side of the bed, he finds the cell.

"Got it right here."

"_Can I ask another favor of you then?_"

Brian lies down, taking another puff off his cigarette. "Do I sound like I'm in a particularly generous mood?"

"_Do you ever?_" Justin sighs, sounding tired. "_If it isn't too much trouble, could you bring it by Mom's tonight? I'd come get it, but I'm stranded until God knows when. And I'm expecting a call from my agent. It's really important, Brian. I wouldn't bother you with this if it weren't._"

"I haven't heard you beg this much since that night at the Mandarin Oriental when I had your balls—"

"_Brian…_"

"You do remember it, don't you?"

Brian does. Perfectly. It would have been their one year anniversary had they gone through with the wedding. He'd secretly planned it—ordered a suite at the Mandarin Oriental, reserved dinner at Le Bernardin, showed up unexpectedly at Justin's work to sweep him off his feet. When Justin asked him, he'd explained it was all to celebrate them coming to their senses before it was too late. Brian doesn't think Sunshine bought it, and probably rightly so. Because more than anything, Brian had shown up to prove something to the both of them—as promised, one year later, they were still together.

"_Of course I remember. It was ridiculously romantic. I'm convinced to this day that it was Emmett's idea all along._"

"Oh fuck you, Sunshine."

"_You did. Last night. Now about my phone._"

Rolling his eyes, he hesitates to answer Justin. Brian wonders if Justin is being serious about thinking it was all Emmy Lou's plan. It wasn't. He _can_do ridiculously romantic if he wants. He has before—one time in particular—but Justin doesn't remember that. And maybe Brian can admit to himself that that's the reason why he held back on romantic gestures afterward. Beyond the safety of Liberty Avenue, he could never know what display of affection would get Justin another bat to the head.

Brian feels suddenly sick and clears his throat. "I'll bring it over after work."

Without waiting for Justin's response, he hangs up and drops the phone on the bed.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Brian's not felt so unfocused at work for a very long time. There are at least three different sets of papers requiring his signature, not to mention all the lackeys that could use a fucking fire lit under their collective ass. Kinnetik is doing well—_exceedingly_well, actually—but it sure as hell won't be if he doesn't pull his shit together.

Still, he sighs and lets his eyes fall heavily on Justin's phone where it lays on his desk. He'd once dreamed—in those very early days of their separation—that Kinnetik would be such a fucking success that he could afford to open a New York office. He and Justin might have been able to fall into their old routine, or something like it. And just as it's starting to look like he might be able to take Kinnetik there, Brian's realizes that there's no point. He ought to stop chasing dreams.

He'll never know why he does it, other than the fact that he's snooped through Justin's stuff for ages now to try to be close to him, to understand. But, Brian snatches the phone up and works easily enough through the security code. Sunshine can be so goddamn predictable at times.

In all honesty, as he stares at the screen, Brian has no clue what he's going to do. Read his texts? Look through his call list? Figure out if there is a special someone in his life nowadays? Not that it fucking matters. He aimlessly punches and presses the screen until he finds his way into Justin's pictures.

Unsurprisingly, he's greeted with photo after photo of the urchin at various ages. One in particular has him stopping—and _grinning_, before he suppresses it. It's just Sunshine and the kid, doing their Sunshine-y thing. She looks quite a bit younger, her chubby cheek pressed tightly against Justin's as they try to cram their faces into the frame. But it's not her that has him smiling against his better judgment; it's Justin—how happy he looks, how content. Brian's never really seen that look on him before, and it kills him to know that he never has and never will be the reason for that expression.

"Hey, you busy?"

Brian sets the phone down quickly and looks up to find Mikey in his doorway. "Not really."

Sheepishly, Michael steps into the office before holding up a take-out bag from the diner. "I was over getting lunch and Ma said you hadn't been in for your usual. She thought you might be working yourself to death."

"This is her apology for tearing me a new asshole on Sunday, isn't it?"

"Probably. She sent enough lemon bars to feed an army. Overcompensation being her poison of choice." He shrugs, smirking. "It could have been worse. Today's special is meatloaf."

Michael and Brian settle into the sofa for lunch—not unlike they had when they were teens—and Michael chatters on for ages about a new comic collection he just bought for the store. Rare editions…so expensive…great condition…Brian, you're not going to believe it…yadda, yadda. The familiarity of the situation comforts him.

"So Em called me last night," Michael prompts, eyes knowing, before biting into his sandwich.

Brian raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess. He wanted to let you know that Justin and I went home together."

"Well mostly he called to make sure that we got the invitations to Ted and Blake's stag party. It's this Saturday, so don't forget or try to come up with some snarky excuse about visiting your Grandma. We all know she's dead." Michael takes another bite. "But yeah, he might have mentioned that too. He said you looked pretty happy."

"I was going to fuck all night. Damn right I was happy."

"With Justin."

"What?"

"You were going to fuck all night _with Justin_."

"That's what I said," Brian barks, exasperated.

"No—" Michael pauses, waving his hands around as if trying to summon the words from thin air. "It's just…not the same with Boy Wonder. The way you look, I mean. Like you're a whole different kind of happy or something. Anyway, that's not the point. What happened?"

"Um, let's see." Brian rolls his eyes. "I took him home, and he blew me in the kitchen. Then—"

"Cut the crap. That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He does know it, and judging from Michael's kicked-puppy expression, there's no chance he's going to get away with leaving it at that. Brian has never been terribly effective against it, which has gotten him in trouble more times than he cares to think about.

"It was alright," Brian says finally, before shoving a whole lemon bar in his mouth.

"Are you two getting back together?"

"Why the fuck would you think that?"

"I don't know," Michael says sarcastically, voice raised. "Because you never fucking tell us anything anymore, so we're just left to assume stuff. I don't even know why you two broke up in the first place. Not that that's too surprising considering how you just bottle everything up. Christ, Brian, what am I supposed to think?"

Brian considers telling Mikey to just shut the fuck up or get the hell out. He wants to badly enough. But he doesn't, ultimately because he feels badly for having upset Michael so much. Having spent most of his childhood hiding bruises and putting on a show, Brian supposes it's only natural that he keeps on doing it. Only the pain isn't physical anymore—that he can almost deal with—it's more emotional.

"Things just happened, Mikey. It wasn't a big deal."

"Wasn't a big deal? You two were like…like Superman and Lois Lane…or Spiderman and Mary Jane…or, I don't know—"

"Rage and JT?"

Michael's expression turns sour. "Yeah, and it _was_a big deal. You were crushed."

Alright, so he had been. He's man enough to admit it. While there's no way he could be considered anything close to a romantic, Brian had assumed that things would last between he and Justin until they could move in together again. They'd faced worse and came out on top; fuck, they'd faced _a lot_worse.

But they hadn't made it. Being two very physical people, spending so much time apart took its toll. Phone sex and webcaming could only take them so far, and as Justin's art and Kinnetik took off, there was only so much time available for the two of them to travel.

Their non-relationship didn't end with a bang like Brian would have anticipated; it just slowly puttered out until the two of them decided they couldn't take it anymore. Brian would have much preferred if it hadn't been that way, if their ending would have been explosive. It would be a lot easier to accept their not-break-up if there'd been a problem between them.

"Maybe I was," Brian concedes. "But it wasn't like the first time, if that's what you're thinking. He wasn't fucking around on me."

"You mean no more than usual," Michael corrects, smirking. "I just don't want to see you like that again, you know? You weren't yourself."

"I was fine, Mikey. You're being a drama princess."

So maybe that was only a half truth. He'd gotten to fine, eventually, but in those first few weeks it'd been tough. Justin's departure for New York had marked the beginning of the longest period of time he'd gone without fucking since he'd lost his virginity. The dry spell had lasted all of thirteen days before he'd broken down and went out specifically for a trick. Brian had assumed that his friends had been so busy in their own lives that they hadn't noticed. Apparently that was just wishful thinking.

"So what about now?"

"What about now?"

"Are you going after Justin?"

Brian quirks an eyebrow. "Mikey, when will you ever learn? I don't go after anyone."

"That, right there," Michael starts, pointing at him with a French fry. "That's you deflecting. I can tell because your do this blink-y thing when you're trying to avoid answering someone."

"No," Brian sneers, stealing the fry from Michael. "I'm not going after Justin."

"Because of Elise?"

"Because I don't fucking want to. Justin has his life. I have mine. It's as simple as that."

There's no fucking way it's as simple as that, but Mikey looks appeased, and that's enough for Brian.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

In an honest attempt at stalling the inevitable, Brian works much later than he usually does. He can talk big all he wants—to Mikey, to Linds, even to Sunshine—but the fact of the matter is that he doesn't want to go over to Mother Taylor's. Not because of the drive, or because he has better things to do, but because Brian worries what seeing Justin again might do to him. If they'd been able to part on this morning's terms, he thinks he might have been able to talk himself into staying away. But without that luxury, he's totally fucked.

He does manage to convince himself to go and get it over with eventually. Brian smokes a cigarette in his Jeep before he walks up the driveway—blaming his nicotine addiction rather than his need to buck up the courage. When he does finally arrive at the door, he doesn't hesitate in knocking; there's no fucking way around this—seeing Justin—and he needs to stop acting like a total pussy. If anyone can master control of a situation, it's him. And he's _not_getting involved.

"Brian," Justin says, opening the door, his expression one of exhaustion.

Brian shoves the phone at him. "Here. And try not to forget it next time."

"Huh." He leans against the door jamb, biting his lip to keep from grinning. "And here I thought—if this morning was any indication—that there wasn't going to be a next time."

_Fuck_. There are so very few things he loathes more than Justin getting his balls. Lips thinning, Brian takes a step backward and goes to turn before the pressure of Justin's fingers on his bicep stops him.

"Why don't you come in." And it sounds a hell of a lot like a peace offering.

"I'm not fucking you."

"That's good," Justin says with a chuckle, "because I was only planning on offering you some hot cocoa. We have those marshmallows you like, and I know you can't resist that."

"Are you home alone?"

"Just me and Eli."

Brian had been hoping for a far different answer—something akin to a Taylor family reunion. Not that the kid isn't a big enough cock block, but being the little vegetable she is, a lot of things could go unnoticed. A lot of things like him pounding into her daddy's ass in the other room. And, _holy shit_, he should not be getting hard from that thought. Yet, he does because if there is one thing that gets him harder than blond twink, it's the taste of triumph over his sworn enemies.

But knowing Justin and having seen him interact with children before—namely _his_son—Brian doesn't think Justin will go for it. He's just wasting his fucking time. Brian turns to leave again, but Justin takes a step from the door and curiosity gets the best of him. Curiosity, and the desire to taste Justin's mouth again.

"Would you stop running away from me, Brian?"

"Who says I'm running?"

Justin's expression turns soft, and it nearly kills Brian. "No one has to say it. I just know."

"Of course you do," he says, rolling his eyes.

He feels like being much less bitchy towards him when Justin winds his arms around his shoulders. Brian figures that Sunshine probably knows it as they stand eye-to-eye, Justin having gained the height from the step that separates them.

"I wasn't lying when I said I didn't want to leave you this morning."

"But you did."

"I have a baby. She takes precedence over everything else."

Brian tries to jerk away—words stinging him, despite knowing how Justin felt all along. He wonders if Justin's ever felt this with him and Gus. But no. Justin is above irrational and unfounded jealousy. This is a problem uniquely his, probably a byproduct of his shit childhood—an all encompassing desire to be the center of someone's world. Christ knows he never got that from Jack or Joan.

"That doesn't mean I don't love you, Brian."

"Fuck love."

Justin sighs, disappointed. "Alright. Fuck love. By all means, throw mine away if you want, but it doesn't change a thing."

He doesn't want to be here anymore—never wanted to be in the first place—and finally breaks free of Justin's hold. Brian doesn't dare look back when he walks away, fears that it'll make him soft to Sunshine's attempt at reconciliation. But Sunshine can shove his apology for this morning—if that's even what this whole conversation was—up his ass.

When he gets back into his car, Brian grabs his phone from his pocket in order to call Mikey; he really wants to get completely fucked up at Babylon tonight. However, his fingers halt at the main screen of his cell as his eyes fall to the background picture. By all rights he should be used to seeing it now—a photo of him, Justin, and Gus taken about three years ago in Toronto. But in light of the fact of what's happening, he can't seem to get passed it.

They were really fucking happy back then; they'd had some semblance of a family between the three of them. Gus had even taken to calling Justin _daddy_, which had enthused Justin to no end. Brian supposes that's when he should have known that Sunshine would end up wandering down the path of breederhood—having a fucking kid, changing diapers instead of doing what he should be doing, namely fucking _him_.

Brian's sure that his Justin—and hell, when did he become such a goddamn lezzie—is somewhere inside this new and significantly less-improved version. Maybe he could convince Sunshine to go back to who he was before, drop the kid with her mommy or her other daddy—assuming, of course, that what's-his-name is still in the urchin's life. Maybe he could work harder this time to make things work between them.

Maybe none of it fucking matters because they'd still be five hours away from each other with lives and careers and goddamn urchins. But that doesn't stop him from wanting Justin. And not just for a quick fuck—though he sure as hell wants that too. Maybe he could…just for a awhile, just until Sunshine leaves for the Big Apple…well, maybe they could work out an arrangement. Now that he has Sunshine back in his system again, stopping seems like an impossibility.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Brian dials Justin's cell. He picks up on the second ring, and for the life of him, Brian doesn't know what the hell to say. It all works out in theory in his head, but what if Justin says no? What if Justin tells him exactly where he can shove it?

"_Brian?_"

He swallows hard. "It can't be like it was before."

"_I never intended to give you the impression that I thought it would. I just miss being with you._"

"I miss you too," he says before he really realizes what he's admitted to. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I saying?"

"_You can say it. I won't tell any of our friends that The Great Brian Kinney has emotions just like the rest of us lay people. Even though I suspect that they already know it and just don't have the heart to let you know that they've caught on._"

Brian altogether ignores the remark and continues before he can think better of it. "I want to see you. While you're in town, I mean. I want to see you and fuck you. But I can't—"

"_I know, Brian. I thought we already went through this at Babylon. I'm not some seventeen year old kid anymore. I understand what you're offering._"

"Sunshine, I wish—"

"_I _know_._"

Closing his eyes and resting his head against the head rest, Brian falls silent. Why does this have to be so goddamn complicated? For now, he's got what he wanted. But what happens in a week or two? What happens when Justin goes home after Christmas? And when the fuck has Brian Kinney ever not lived in the now?

"_Why don't you stick around? I have the water on for cocoa. It'll be ready in just a few minutes. The door is unlocked, so come on in._"

"Yeah, okay."

.

When Brian walks through the door, the Taylors' living room looks a lot like it had the last time he was here. It'd been a few months ago when Molly left for Dartmouth. He'd come to see his latest Taylor charge off and was genuinely going to miss seeing her bossy ass around Kinnetik. He was losing a fucking fabulous intern, but she would do him proud in business school. Since Molly's departure, he hasn't been over much where once he was over several times a week.

After toeing off his shoes, Brian slips off his coat and drapes it over the back of one of the recliners. He can hear Justin banging around in the kitchen. And for as good of a cook as Justin is, he makes a hell of a lot of noise in the process. Always has. Moving towards the kitchen, hazel eyes glance over a tiny form buried in equally as tiny blankets on the couch.

The urchin.

He thinks to ignore her, but he's genuinely caught off guard by the sight of her. In his limited experience, if the kid's eyes are open, then she's ridiculously animate—crawling and giggling and smiling. So to see her laid up on the couch—her small head sunk into an overlarge pillow and nearly unmoving—is a definite first.

Despite himself, he takes a few steps her way to assess the competition. When she sees him, she tilts her head backwards to get a better look and then shifts her gaze in disinterest back to her kiddie movie, her little arms tightening their hold around what looks to be a fucking hedgehog stuffed animal. Her nose is red and swollen, her eyes heavy and pinkish. She wheezes a little as she breathes and for a split second, he almost pities her.

"What's wrong with the kid?" Brian asks as he walks into the kitchen.

Justin turns from where he's pouring cocoa mix into some cups. "Allergies. Though we're not sure if it was Mom's powder that exploded everywhere this morning or if it's the orchids. It's hard to say, but hopefully her normal medicine will take care of it." Then Justin offers him a small smile. "Thanks for asking."

He leans against the counter. "I wasn't asking because I give a shit."

"Then why _did_you ask?"

He doesn't know. It's not because he gives a damn about her that's for sure. In fact, as he thinks about it, he likes her better this way. At least she's not making Justin chase her around the house and therefore taking time away from _them_. Brian glances over in her direction again, sees her chewing on the hedgehog's ear, and very much decides it's not because he cares. Because he doesn't. At all.

"It's called conversation, Sunshine. I know you probably don't get much of that these days."

"Uh huh," Justin says, brow raised, and he's totally not buying it. "You know, you should really try to be a little nicer when it comes to her. She _is_my daughter."

"What's it matter?"

Justin steps dangerously close to him, his fingers winding around Brian's tie and tugging, bringing his lips to Brian's ear. "Because if you keep acting like a pissy piece of shit, I might take my ass elsewhere. And I don't think either of us wants that."

Sunshine's bedroom voice—regardless of what he's actually saying—has always been a weak point for Brian. That, coupled with a threat of withholding much desired sex, makes for a guaranteed approval to just about any request. Brian's never really decided where the urchin falls on that line of approval, but considering that Justin's not _asking_for a bouncing bundle of joy and instead just toleration of the one he already has, Brian might be able to comply. Especially if Justin keeps palming him through the front of his pants. Goddamn.

"Understood?" Justin asks.

Brian clears his throat. "Yeah."

Suddenly sunshine-y again, Justin returns to his cocoa stirring. "Lucky for you I'm not expecting miracles."

Yeah, lucky for him because he sure as hell isn't going to get down on the floor with the urchin and play. If _that's_what it took to get into Justin's ass again, it might never happen. But cold toleration Brian is capable of. After all, he's dealt well enough with Mel all these years.

"So when are you going back?"

Justin hands him his cup of cocoa—piled high with a mini mountain of marshmallows—and deftly avoids looking at him. That's Sunshine-speak for avoidance, despite how he may smile and pretend like everything is just fine. If it weren't for the piping hot contents of his mug, he might have grabbed Justin by the arm and made him answer. Because as of right now, anything that comes out of Justin's mouth might as well be bullshit.

"Sometime around New Years. We'll definitely be here for Eli's birthday."

Brian must have a blank look on his face because Justin stops mid-way into the living room and scowls. "You don't fucking remember, do you?"

He ought to. It was the end of the world as he knew it. Brian does remember a late night call from Justin a few days after Christmas—he hadn't be able to come home because the urchin was past-due—and Justin's voice filled with emotion. Initially, he'd thought something had gone wrong—why the fuck else would Justin be calling _him_. It turned out that everyone was just fine and that he'd wanted to talk about the night that Gus was born for some clearly lesbianic reason. Brian still doesn't understand that.

"Her birthday is the twenty-seventh. She'll be—"

"—a year old. I know that much, Sunshine."

He follows Justin—now pissy, Brian can tell—to the couch but keeps his distance as he sits. Justin winds up sitting at the urchin's feet, putting a good foot between them. Brian suddenly feels very unwelcome, but sips his cocoa anyway. He'll be damned before he leaves Justin when he's in a mood; there's no telling when he'll be forgiven if he just leaves.

"So am I getting an invitation to this birthday?" Brian asks to break the tension, not because he actually gives a fuck.

"I didn't think you'd want one, considering."

"Sunshine." Brian scoots closer to Justin, wrapping an arm around his slight shoulders; physical contact being one of the best ways to warm him up. "You're acting like a fucking ice queen. I don't understand why it is that I'm expected to know when _your_kid was born. It's not like I'm her other daddy."

"She doesn't have another daddy," Justin says, tersely.

Maybe he hadn't taken the best approach to the situation after all. Brian supposes he should have known better than to bring up something like that, especially when he knows very little about Justin's arrangement with his ex—most of it second hand knowledge. They hadn't been together long before they'd decided to have a kid. Probably all Sunshine's idea, romantic that he is. And apparently, they hadn't been together much afterward either. Brian didn't even know what the fuck this James guy looked like.

Considering that talking is getting him no where tonight, Brian leans over to Justin, his hand placed on Justin's neck. He pushes Justin to meet his mouth, and predictably Sunshine is resistant at first. But a flick of the tongue and a nibble to the lips has him sighing and moving against him.

As his hand slips across Justin's thigh, Brian has completely forgotten about the goddamn kid until she starts whimpering. And it's only a couple whimpers in before it turns into a full-blown cry. The sound grates on his nerves, as does Justin pulling away from him.

Urchin – 1. Kinney – 0.

"What's her deal?" Brian asks irritably.

Justin lifts her from the couch and sets her on his lap, blanket and hedgehog fisted tightly in her hands. "I don't know."

"I do. She's a professional cock block."

Justin gives him a sideways glance—thankfully one without heat—and starts to bounce her. It doesn't do much to placate her wails. You'd think someone was tearing her fucking fingers off one by one. Drama queen.

"Eli. Eli." Justin shifts her, tucking her into his arm, and tries putting her pacifier in her mouth. "Come on, Elise."

"She's a lost cause."

"You're not helping." Justin adjusts her again. "Why don't you try to do that thing you used to do with Gus? The funny voices. She might like it."

"I _never_did funny voices."

"That you'll own up to." Justin juts his lower lip out, and Brian wants nothing more than to suck on it. "Please. I've been dealing with her crabby pants all day. I'm exhausted and at my wit's end."

Reluctantly, Brian clears his throat, leans down a little closer to her, and proceeds with the very best monster voice he can muster. "If you don't stop crying, I'll smother you in your sleep."

Sunshine laughs, and it seems like Brian's threat was less than impressive. But after a second, the kid's cries turn into small hiccups, her bloodshot eyes peering up at him. Brian's still a little bit amazed by how blue they are, by how much she looks like Justin minus the blonde curls.

"You're a miracle worker," Justin says, lifting Brian's chin to kiss him as reward. "It took me half an hour to calm her down last time."

"It doesn't take much to excite you anymore, does it? So do I get a blowjob for my troubles?"

Justin rests his head against Brian's shoulder. "If you take rain checks."

"That's not usually my policy."

"Well it's not usually my policy to blow men in front of my daughter, so it looks like you're out of luck."

"I said _usually_."

"Ohh. Are we invoking the Blond Twink Clause of 2001 to the Kinney Operating Manual?"

Brian nuzzles him, grinning. "We might be."

Just as Sunshine goes to kiss him again, the urchin makes some sort of noise that diverts Justin's attention back to her. Brian can't help but to look—scowl, really—into her general direction, her wide eyes locked on him in curiosity.

"Can you say 'Brian', Elise?"

Brian throws Sunshine a look. "You act like she can talk."

"She can! She says 'Mama' and 'Dada', 'hi' and 'bye', 'no' and 'Mug'."

"Mug?"

Justin grabs her stuffed hedgehog. "This is Mug. Her uncle Milo got it for her when she was born."

"Uncle Milo? Were his parents stoned when they named him?"

"He's Delaney's twin brother. And I don't think it's a bad name at all."

Brian snorts. "Then your kid ought to be lucky you settled for Elise."

With a roll of his eyes, Justin turns his attention to the urchin and wipes some of the tears off her cheeks. She looks like she's going to fall asleep, and Brian thinks he could only be so lucky. If she goes to bed, he might be able to get a blowjob out of Sunshine after all. His cock stiffens with the thought. Mostly, that's why he tolerates having Justin cuddling against him in a picture perfect display of domesticated bliss from any stranger's perspective. But Brian sure as hell knows better and hopes that Sunshine is enjoying it while it lasts.

.

As it turns out, the urchin falls asleep before the end of _Finding Nemo_. Her neck looks really fucking uncomfortable with the way she leans up against Justin, but Brian wouldn't think about suggesting moving it. Somehow he imagines the urchin being as grumpy as her dad if woken up in the middle of a deep sleep. And judging from the way she snores softly, it's deep.

"Can you hold her while I get her bed ready?" Justin whispers.

"Yes, I'm physically capable."

"Brian, don't be an ass. Will you?"

He sure as hell doesn't want to, but the look Justin is giving him—a cross between pleading and scathing—tells him he hasn't much of a choice. As if she's some newborn, Sunshine eases her into his arms. Brian doesn't think it would make a goddamn difference if he'd thrown her; she's nothing but dead weight, completely knocked out.

It's only after Justin walks quietly down the hall into the spare, safely out of sight, that Brian dares look at her. He imagined her to be heavier than she actually is, which gives him the impression that she's a lot less indestructible than he once thought. Now he just thinks of her as some sort of helpless, baby bird. Not a good thing—that's for fucking sure. Definitely not a good thing when he recalls his own son being this small.

Brian does manage to pull his eyes away from her when he hears Justin coming back into the room. He'd rather be dead than caught studying her. But by the looks of things, Sunshine figures he has because he's got some stupid look on his face.

"What?"

Justin shakes his head. "I don't think you realize how hot you look holding small children."

"Does it get your ovaries all aflutter, Sunshine?"

"You know," he says, carefully picking up the urchin, "that's the moment that I fell in love with you. Completely and unequivocally."

"What moment?"

"When I saw you holding Gus for the first time."

Brian thinks Justin misses the eye roll since he's already on his way to put the urchin to bed. Justin can be such a goddamn muncher sometimes that Brian questions where he went wrong. After all, it's not as if _he_could pin point the exact moment that he fell for Justin. He'd been denying it for so long that it's probably some fucking repressed memory at this point.

While he waits for Sunshine, Brian stretches out on the couch. It's the first chance he's had all day to just fucking relax without having to worry about clients or not-ex-boyfriends or veggie-headed urchins. Mother Taylor sure as hell knows how to pick comfortable couches—though still a far cry from his own Italia Moda—and Brian thinks that he might be able to fall asleep.

Or could have, if it weren't for Justin taking the opportunity to pounce on him. They're a tangle of misplaced elbows and knees for a few moments, Brian bitching about it constantly as they shift on the couch. Justin finally settles on top of Brian, wedged halfway between the back of the couch and Brian's side.

"You know," Brian begins, eyes closed, "I think you might be losing your perfect twink physique. I don't remember you weighing this much, Sunshine."

Justin laughs. "Fuck you, Brian. You don't mean it. You're just trying to be a bastard."

"Trying?"

"Yeah, and failing." Justin traces Brian's lips with his finger. "Because I don't remember you complaining about it last night. In fact, I seem to remember the opposite. What was it? 'Oh, Sunshine, fuck, that's—'"

"Shut the hell up," he says, cupping a hand over Justin's mouth as he peers out of the corner of his eye. "And if you find that particularly challenging, I'll give you something to put in your mouth."

"Mmm, that sounds nice."

Brian would believe it, too, if it weren't for the fact that Justin looks half-asleep, his eyes already closed and contented smile on his lips. He shifts around a little, but Sunshine just moves with him, head still firmly planted on Brian's shoulder.

"Sunshine? My blowjob?"

"Just give me a minute. You're really comfy, you know?"

He groans, already able to foresee where this is headed. The very same place it headed ages ago when Justin had come home past three in the morning after a play date with Mikey and their comic books. And Brian isn't entirely sure his ego can take another bruising like that. To this day, Justin is the only person who has ever fallen asleep on him mid-rim job. Or mid-anything, for that matter.

"You must be really tired. Normally it's a job trying to keep your mouth off my dick."

"Well _somebody_kept me up all night. Then I came home to a sick kid," Justin mumbles.

"Have you been getting decent sleep lately?" Brian asks, tone suddenly more serious.

"I manage."

"Justin."

Brian's very well aware that all this questioning makes him sound a hell of a lot like Deb or Mother Taylor. He can't help it though, not after one phone call not too long after Justin had left for New York. It had been one of the more frightening moments of Brian's life—getting some call from the hospital about Justin. He'd immediately thought the worst, but it turned out that Justin had been admitted for exhaustion and dehydration.

That still didn't stop him from getting the next flight out to LaGuardia. Or from sleeping in some fucking torture device of a chair in Justin's hospital room that night. Or from canceling all of his business meetings for the next four days just so he could stay in New York to take care of Justin. From a hotel room, though, because he sure as hell wasn't staying in Justin's shithole of an apartment.

Not that Justin has needed it, but Brian's not been around to watch over him for the past two years. He has no idea how Justin is living, who he's living with, or how he's doing. In his limited experience in child rearing, Brian can assume that, regardless of any of that information, Justin's short on sleep. And if he's pushing himself like he typically does—the little shit—then Sunshine can probably use any spare minutes he can get.

And with all of that weighing on him, Brian says gently, "Hey, I think I'm going to head out."

Justin stirs, lifts his head to look at Brian. "What? How come? What about your blow job?"

"I told you. I take rain checks from blond twinks with great asses."

There's a moment that Brian thinks Justin is going to demand to be fucked, but it's just a brief flicker of retaliation across his face. Instead, Justin lies down against Brian once again.

"Then stay with me."

"I don't do couches, Sunshine."

"We'll go to my bed."

"Maybe some other time."

Justin pouts. "You never stay with me."

"I do. Just never at your place. And why break a ten year tradition now?"

Brian dips his head down to capture Justin's mouth. Sunshine moans, and it almost has Brian regretting his decision to leave. But he's the more practical, the more fucking reasonable, of the two of them, and he won't be the one responsible for putting Justin into the hospital.

Before the kiss turns heated and hands start to wander, Brian gently pushes Justin away and stands. Blue eyes blink up at him, tired yet disappointed. Whether in himself or in him, Brian will never know.

"I want to see you again."

"You will, Sunshine."

"Can we do lunch someday? I'll let you take me out for greasy hamburgers and fries."

He almost forgot how much he loves Justin's sleep-drugged smiles, how his shirts always ride up on his hips and exposes his stomach. Sunshine's a fucking mess when he's tired, though maybe in the sexiest way possible. It's almost enough to make him want to stay.

* * *

><p><strong>Endnote:<strong> So I've started chapter 4, but there may be a slight delay in finishing it due to the fact that I'm going to try to participate in the QAF Gusmas challenge over on IJ. It's for charity so definitely a worthy cause. As always, lovelies, I appreciate each and every one of your comments and your support.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter:** 4  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 10,248  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, sexual situations, misunderstandings  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> So here's chapter four, and I'm very sorry that it turned out so long! I usually try to keep the length more reasonable. But because I went out of control this time, this chapter is going to have to be split into two parts due to LJ's character restrictions. Also, you may wonder what's going on about half way through the chapter, but I encourage you to keep reading until the chapter's end. Everything will be explained!

* * *

><p>While her name is notorious in the ad business, Brian could never have realized before now just how true the rumors about Susanna Blackwell were. He watches her from across the table in the conference room—a tiny, old woman with the cutthroat, kill-or-be-killed temperament of a beaten down pit bull. If pit bulls wore blindingly scarlet lipstick, of course, and had enough business savvy to keep <em>him<em> on his toes.

He's wanted her account for ages, almost from the moment that he heard of her company and the prestige it held in the world of fragrance and perfumery. It was an impossible pursuit while he was with Ryder and only slightly more realistic under Vanguard. But now that Kinnetik has gained a reputation for being the best boutique agency in the business, he has his chance. Either he gets the account now or he never will. And at this critical juncture, there's no telling which way the scales will tip.

For whatever reason, Brian senses that Blackwell questions the vision he has for her product. She's notorious for being a ballbuster when it comes to design, expecting nothing short of groundbreaking for each new campaign. It is, after all, why she's sitting with him and his team today—Smith & Martin out of New York having failed abysmally in pleasing her. Brian might have been able to appreciate that business practice—being that it's so very near and dear to his own expectations for his company—if he weren't trying to sell himself just now. He's sure he's courted her interest at the very least; the rest just comes down to convincing her that Kinnetik is the right business to see her vision through.

Just as he's about to suggest to her that they meet over dinner at some point this week and discuss Kinnetik's ideas for her product, Brian catches Cynthia's startled look from the corner of his eye. His brow pulls as he tries to inconspicuously read whatever it is that has so obviously caught her interest in Blackwell's background information. Their gazes meet briefly, Cynthia trying desperately to communicate to him that they need to talk. About what, he has no fucking clue, but he definitely wants to, especially if it has to do with this account.

"Mrs. Blackwell," Brian begins as she finishes expressing her concerns for what has to be the hundredth fucking time in ten minutes, "if you'll allow my team some time to look over your requests, I can assure you we can come up with an excellent campaign that meets your company's needs."

"I don't want excellence, Mr. Kinney. What I want is perfection," she says tersely.

He smiles, forced. "And you'll have it."

"I must stress again that time is of the essence."

Brian thinks he sees Ted rolling his eyes at that. They're all well aware of the timetable that Blackwell has all but outright demanded of them should she decide to sign the contract. It's goddamn ridiculous, and if it weren't for the fact that he's had his sights set on this account for years, Brian would tell her exactly where she could shove her time constraints. It'd be exactly the same place where she could shove her questioning of his design ability.

"We understand. I'll have my art department prioritize your account and my assistant contact yours about arranging another meeting. You should expect to hear from us within a few days."

For the first time since the old bag and company walked through his office doors, Blackwell finally looks placated by something he's said. She nods curtly and stands, her employees and partners following suit.

As he walks her toward the doorway, Brian notices her attention suddenly diverts to his desk. He turns to find what's caught her interest and immediately guesses that it's the large-scale painting Justin did for him ages ago when Justin was just starting out in New York. It spans across most of the wall, making it an imposing presence in the room to say the least. Brian likes it for that reason. Well, that, and because it exudes this raw energy—harsh and cold, yet undeniably sexual. It's palette of mostly blue shades with dabs of blacks, oranges, and whites was no doubt inspired by the light above of his bed in the loft; Justin had admitted to that much, though they didn't frequently analyze his work together.

A sense of pride wells inside him as he watches Blackwell's face morph from confused to curious to somewhere close to awestruck. He wants to say, _that's right; Sunshine's a fucking genius and you should feel fortunate to experience it_. But he doesn't. The smug smirk gracing his lips will have to do.

"This is stunning," the old bag admits after some time.

"Quite impressive," he agrees.

Her eyes never leaving the painting she asks, "Where did you acquire this piece?"

"I didn't. It was given to me as a gift."

"By whom?"

"Justin Taylor. He's—"

"I'm well aware of who he is, Mr. Kinney. I _am_ a patron of the arts," she huffs, insulted apparently. "I've read of his work and had the pleasure of viewing it in person once. He is quite an accomplished young man."

"You wouldn't know the half of it."

"You're an acquaintance of his?"

"We're—"

"Partners," Cynthia quickly interjects.

Brian's eyes snap to her, completely surprised. What the fuck does she think she's saying? They're not fucking partners, haven't been for a really long time, if _ever_. Just as he's about to correct Cynthia, she gives him a look that's begging him to trust her. The only reason that he does is that she's never once disappointed him, and she'd better hope that she didn't just start. A mistake that could cost him Blackwell's account could prove fatal to her.

"Partners?"

"Justin is Brian's ball-and-chain," Ted adds, a touch nervously, and nods to Brian to go with it.

"I had no idea," she says surprised.

"We don't advertise it. Justin likes to keep our personal life private."

Blackwell returns her gaze to the painting, staring at it greedily as if she's never seen anything so remarkable. She probably hasn't and probably never will. Despite their differences at times, Brian would never begrudge Justin of his talent. And judging from the way Blackwell's demeanor has suddenly changed from rabid animal to calm in light of the artwork, he may have Justin to thank for this account.

"You must have impeccable taste to be able to court such an artist, Mr. Kinney."

Brian could scoff at the absurdity of that statement. Yes, he does have impeccable taste, but it sure as hell has nothing to do with his relationship with Justin. And if she thinks that Justin has any sense of taste beyond art, she really is as senile as some claim her to be. The only thing it would take to _court_ Sunshine is a nine inch cock and some cheap flowers. Throw in a mushy Hallmark and he's yours for life.

"Thank you."

"I'll be in touch," she says with one last, hard look at the painting.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The moment Blackwell and her entourage are safely out the door, Brian turns to Cynthia and Ted. He gives them both a hard look, as if to tell them to cut the goddamn bullshit. Ted visibly squirms a bit, but Cynthia remains unruffled.

"Do you two want to tell me what the fuck is going on?" His lips thin. "Because last time I checked, Justin and I aren't married. And we sure as hell aren't partners in any sense of the word."

"I hadn't made the connection before rereading Blackwell's background in the meeting, but the old bitch has been a patron of Henderson's for the past ten years."

"Henderson's?" he asks, not understanding the relevance that has to his question.

"It's the gallery Justin worked at in 2006. You couldn't make his second show, remember?"

That does ring a bell now that she mentions it. He'd promised he'd be there but had a business meeting forced on him at the last minute by Brown. And in a genius move to help get him out of the dog house, he'd had Cynthia order two dozen calla lilies to be delivered to Justin at the gallery he was both working for and featured at. That gallery happened to be Henderson's.

"Yeah, I remember."

Cynthia cocks her hip, arms folded across her chest. "I thought the place and address seemed familiar when I went over the background the first time, but it wasn't until the meeting that I made the connection. Blackwell hardly ever misses a show, so she'd have had to run into Justin's artwork at some point. I thought it might be worthwhile to bring up. And when she said what a fan she was, it seemed like the right move to make."

"It was a fucking dangerous move," Brian scoffs. "She could have been a homophobe."

"Well she came to us, Bri. It's not as if the company is exactly in the closet," Ted interjects. "That, and considering her firmly established concerns—your sexuality not being one of them—it was a pretty safe bet that she wouldn't be offended by domestic partnership."

Alright, so they both had very valid points and reason enough to back their mini-mutiny. He doesn't feel compelled to fire them yet. In fact, Brian's rather impressed by their quick thinking and risk taking, especially considering that it didn't backfire right in their fucking faces.

"So what are you suggesting then?"

"You could always dangle the carrot in front of the horse," Cynthia says, slyly.

"Do you really think that arranging a meeting between the two of them would get us anywhere?" Ted asks. "I'm not sure a meet-and-greet is really going to sway this sort of client."

Brian _is_ sure. At least, he's sure that it can't hurt his chances any. No one knows better than himself that sometimes all a client needs is an extra push in the right direction. Most of the time that means some one-on-one with his cock. But in this case, it could mean the opportunity to meet an artist whose work left her stunned. And the one person that can give her access to Justin? _Him_.

"Cynthia, if this works out, remind me to give you a raise."

"Sure thing, boss."

"But, wait," Ted stammers. "That's underhanded. It's one thing to fuck your clients, but it's completely different when you're involving Justin. He's going to be pissed if he knows what you're doing, Bri. Using him like that. You'll ruin—"

"Ruin what, Theodore? There's nothing _to_ ruin," Brain says, walking around his desk. "Now don't you have some numbers to crunch?"

The look on Ted's face is one of exasperation, but he leaves anyway with Cynthia right behind him. When the door shuts, Brian sits and leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his face. This account is so fucking attainable he can smell it. And Cynthia isn't wrong; she knows how to play a client just as well as he does. That's why they're the perfect business partners.

But there is an issue, like it or not. He's put things before Justin, he's pushed Justin away. However, he's never _used_ Justin. If it were anyone else, no problem. But, he has more respect for Sunshine than to do that to him. And as much as he'd like to pretend there's nothing left between them to ruin, Brian knows better. Justin still trusts him, and that trust should never be brought into question.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Brian waits to call him until he's in the comfort of his loft and away from all his nosy employees who don't need to hear what's about to be said. He showers quickly enough and falls onto the bed before he picks up his cell. Somehow it feels strange to talk to Sunshine anywhere else in the loft. Two years of phone sex will do that to anyone.

The phone rings and rings. Just when Brian is about to say _fuck it_ and call back at a later time, Justin answers, winded—as if he'd been running—but pleasantly surprised judging from his tone.

"_Brian._"

Brian smirks, voice husky. "What are you wearing?"

"_Stop it,_" Justin says with an amused chuckle. "_Do you always have to be so indecent on the phone?_"

"You used to wait with baited breath every night for me to say that, Sunshine."

"_Who says I still don't?_"

Justin suddenly has the complete attention of his dick. Brian knows better than to think that Justin still wants to hear that. After all, who the fuck fantasizes about phone sex? Aside from pathetic twats, no one. He tries to convince his cock of that, though, but it's still half-hard and approaching aching.

"Alright, that's enough. I don't actually give a shit about what you're wearing."

"_So you just called because you miss hearing my voice?_"

Brian snorts. "Maybe in your muncher dreams."

"_Then what's up?_"

"I need your help."

He lays out the plan for Justin from start to finish. It's meant to be nothing more than a quick face-to-face after his next meeting with Blackwell, seemingly completely accidental. They do their cute, married couple routine for her. She fawns over Justin's immeasurable talent. Then, she leaves. With some luck, she'll be begging Kinnetik to let her sign a contract with them. Justin's part is done, and everyone goes home happy.

"So?" Brian prompts.

"_You've resorted to lying to little old ladies in order to get clients, Brian?_"

"She's not just any old lady. She's the closest thing to the anti-Christ you're ever going to meet."

"_And naturally you want her business._"

Brian can almost see the smirk on Justin's perfect lips. He can also feel the urge to kiss it right off of them. Fuck.

"I didn't call to talk morality with you. Are you in or out?"

"_It might be fun to be partners-in-crime again. Just like when we took down Stockwell._" Justin pauses. "_But what's in it for me?_"

"That satisfaction of knowing that you might be instrumental in saving my ass isn't enough for you, Sunshine?"

Justin hums appreciatively. "_I think I'd rather be nailing your ass than saving it. Sorry._"

Brian scowls. "I'm not that desperate."

"_That's unfortunate. Looks like our business negotiations are over then, Mr. Kinney. It's been a pleasure._"

That little fucker. Justin knows what that voice does to him, the one that's all sultry and yet oh-so-innocent. And Brian won't even get into Justin's _Mr. Kinney_ routine. The kid knows how to drive a hard bargain, and Brian's not too sure he can get what he wants without Justin's help.

"Justin, wait."

"_I'm listening._" And Brian can _hear_ his fucking smile.

"We'll do dinner. Lunch. Whatever the fuck whenever the fuck you want it. You name the terms."

"_That's a nice start._"

"What else do you want? Besides _that_ because you're not getting it."

"_I've been dying for a real night out for ages._

"Uh-huh."

"_But I'm going to need to find a babysitter._" Justin seems to hesitate. "_I know it's probably asking too much, but would you mind?_"

.Fuck. His brow pulling, Brian's mouth drops open as he struggles to wrap his mind around what Justin just said. That kid had fucking _balls_ to ask _him_ to watch the urchin. And just who the fuck did Justin think he was going to spend a romantic evening with? Did he meet someone since he'd gotten back to town? Some asshole who probably liked shitty violin music and had stupid facial hair? Yeah, that's just Sunshine's type.

"You know what? Forget it," Brian snaps and promptly hangs up.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

He takes a long drag off his cigarette and a deep drink of Beam straight from the bottle. On the other end of the phone, Gus is listing off all the Christmas gifts he wants this year. Brian smiles lazily, his mind a blur from the liquor, and jots down the items in a drunken scrawl across the back of a take-out menu.

"That's all you want, Sonnyboy?"

"_Dad, I told ya like…twenty things. That's a lot._"

"You're too practical for a nine year old," Brian says, struggling to keep from slurring his words. "You get that from your mother."

Actually, Gus gets a lot of things from Lindsay. He may look dead like his old man, but his personality is all Linds, from mild-manners to an ungodly ability to read people. Brian does his best to be a bad influence during their monthly visits, but so far the lessons haven't stuck.

"_You say that all the time._"

"Because it's true."

"_Dad?_"

"Yeah?"

"_You sound super sad,_" Gus says, his own voice troubled.

"Only because I miss you, Sonnyboy."

It's not really a lie. He does miss Gus; he misses him like he never thought he could miss anyone. They see each other a lot, more than Brian expected when the Marcus-Peterson brood left for Canada. It'll never be enough, though.

But it's more than Gus, too. He's drunken himself into a daze because of Justin, because Justin interpreted his I'm-only-in-this-for-the-fuck-and-nothing-more as I'm-okay-with-you-dating. Which he isn't. It's probably not fair for him to uncomfortable with the idea given the established terms of their agreement, but fuck fairness. Life isn't fair.

"_I don't want you to be sad, Dad. Mom and Ma have the countdown calendar up in the kitchen. Jenny and I mark the day off every night before we brush our teeth. Only she's really bad and got marker everywhere. And you know what? I get to see you in, like, ten days. So you just hafta go to sleep tonight and tomorrow night. And then you do it a couple more times. And then you wake up and I'm there!_"

Goddamn. His eyes get suddenly wet because, fuck, his kid is comforting _him_ and not the other way around. And he's so damn smart and optimistic. Not the miserable cynic his father is. Gus is_nothing_ like him in all the ways that matter, thank god for that.

"You should get back to bed," Brian says, not because he wants to stop talking but because he fears the evenness of his voice won't hold out. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"_After my game._"

"Yeah, after your game."

"_Okay, Dad! Love you! Sleep tight!_"

"You too, Sonnyboy."

Brian can hear Gus pass the phone off to one of his mothers. He really doesn't feel like talking to either of them tonight; it's much easier to hide a drunken call from a nine year old than it is from the munchers. And if it's Mel, he knows he'll be read the riot act. It's not as if he doesn't know he shouldn't be calling Gus when he's significantly more than five sheets to the wind. Most of the time, he doesn't call in this state—Brian knows what it's like to be subjected to a drunken father. But he needed to hear Gus, needed to know that at least one of his Sonnyboys still and always would love him.

"_Brian? Are you still there?_"

Lindsay, her voice as downy soft as always. Not Mel. Maybe there really is a God.

"Yeah."

"_You called after Gus' bedtime._"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Lindsay," he spits. "He's my son. I'll call him whenever I damn well—"

"_That's not what I meant,_" she says, softer still. "_You know you can call him whenever you want to. That's not even an issue. It's just that you _never_ call past Gus' bedtime. This isn't like you. When I saw your number I thought something had happened back home._"

Well, shit. He rarely loses his temper with Linds, and half the time he does it usually ends up being over a misunderstanding. Like tonight. He bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to keep himself from apologizing. Brian Kinney doesn't do apologies, and even if he did, Lindsay wouldn't want to hear it. She's one of the few people who prefers his life's philosophy—no apologies, no regrets. It's probably why he loves her so much.

"Nothing's wrong. Everyone's fine."

"_You're drunk._"

"I am not."

"_Don't lie to me. I know your drunk voice, Bri. We _were_ friends in college._" She sighs, tone suddenly more serious. "_And you never call Gus while you're at Babylon or the bars. You're drinking alone, aren't you? At the loft?_"

"You're not my goddamn mother, Linds," he says with little heat.

"_No, but I am the mother of your son, which I thought meant something to you._"

"It does. You _know_ it does"

"_So why don't you tell me what's got you in this state? I'll listen and nod in all the right places, promise. And then we can pretend like this conversation never happened. Come on, it'll make me feel better._"

Lindsay has always had a way with words, spinning things so he always felt as if he was helping her and not the other way around. Over the years, Brian's become wise to it, now picking and choosing when he decides to open up to her. He doesn't feel much like talking tonight, but he'll throw her a bone.

"Justin's in town for the holidays."

"_He decided to come?_" Lindsay asks, surprised but pleasantly so. "_Oh, Brian. I didn't know that was a certain thing or I would have called you sooner._"

"I don't need you to check up on me."

"_No, no, I just…_" She pauses, and Brian has no doubt she's trying to figure out exactly how to phrase whatever comes next. "_How do you feel about it?_"

"Linds," he sighs, taking another drink of Beam. "You don't think we're actually going to discuss feelings, do you?"

"_Right. Well would you like me to say something to Gus? I'm not sure if he remembers Justin very clearly. It's been a few years._"

Brian thinks that over, having never really considered it before. Gus had been around six years old the last time he saw Justin. He's grown a hell of a lot since then and has long since stopped asking or talking about Justin. It's only natural that he would, considering how Justin faded from his life.

He's not sure what to do about that issue though. Should they explain to Gus who this person is ahead of time? Or should they wait until Gus sees Justin again? He has no fucking clue, and it's probably not a good idea to make this sort of decision when he's well on his way to shitfaced.

"Let's wait. I can't think straight right now, and I sure as hell don't want to hear about how I permanently scarred him during Christmas 2010 until the day I die."

"_Alright, well if you do decide that you want Mel and me to talk with him before we come down, we will. Now why don't you get some sleep? It sounds like you've had a trying day._"

Trying doesn't describe the half of it, but sleep's not a bad idea. He shifts the phone to his other shoulder and reaches for the cap to the liquor. It takes him a couple swipes before he manages to get his hands on it.

"_I'll give you a call in the morning, Bri?_"

"I'll be fine."

"_I just worry when you drink like this._"

"Save your mothering for my son, alright? Goodnight, Linds."

"_Goodnight. I love you._"

Brian rolls his eyes and smirks. "You too."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Truth be told, he'd rather cut off his own cock than sit through another meeting with Susanna Blackwell. Dealing with this woman twice in one week is a feat of superhuman strength; luckily for him, he's a superhero. Well, in theory, anyway. And right about now, he would love nothing more than to tap into Rage's mind control abilities and have Blackwell see things _his_ way.

The problem is that she doesn't trust him. He's unapologetic about the campaign he and his staff have spent the last forty-eight hours slaving over—it's sleek, it's sexy, it's everything a perfume ad should be.

And apparently, it's also not quite good enough.

Brian watches Blackwell's beady little eyes flit over the boards that were drawn up for her. They're genius as far as he's concerned, more than she'll ever get anywhere else. He wants to tell her as much—just lay it on the line for the old bag—and normally he would. But with tens of millions of dollars at stake, all riding on her signature, Brian has no choice but to sit back and wait.

"What inspires you, Mr. Kinney?" she asks, pausing in front of one of the boards.

Cock—nine inches, cut.

He's reached the level of irritation that he nearly tells her as much, but bites his tongue before he costs himself the account. Brian wracks his brain for an answer that's not lame. As suspected, there really isn't one, so he settles for the next best thing.

"Money."

Her lips curls. "Not your partner?"

"Maybe if this were a romance novel." Cynthia shoots him a look that's begging him to stop. "I like to keep work and pleasure separate for the most part."

"And what about Mr. Taylor? What inspires him?"

Cock—nine inches, cut.

She really didn't understand much about gay men, did she?

He tries to ignore the ease that comes with answering questions about his _partner_, how Justin is the only person who ever comes to mind when that word is used. At business dinners, conferences, fundraisers, parties—it's always Justin, even on the off occasion when he's sleeping with someone more than once.

"Everything inspires Justin," he states simply because it's just better that way, better to not over-think it.

It must be the right answer because the old woman smiles and nods sagely. "And what does Mr. Taylor think of your campaign for my product?"

Goddamn, does she not know when to shut the hell up? In her demented mind, she may think they're a couple, but even then that doesn't mean that they cozy up next to the fire at night, cuddle, and talk about their days. For fuck's sake, they're not lesbians. Or breeders. Or Stepford Fags.

It's almost the tipping point for Brian. He's going to tell her where to shove her artistic vision—fuck the money—and escort her the hell out. But then he realizes what it is that she wants. She didn't come back to Kinnetik for his vision of her product. Blackwell came back for Justin's vision—a work of art designed specifically for her. Briefly he wonders if this is even about selling the product. But should it matter to him? Millions are millions.

"It's too heavy handed for Justin," Brian says, honestly. "Blatant. He'd rather think about and react to artwork than be told what it is. He likes the abstract. I assume you're well aware that you can't just glance at one of Justin's paintings. It's a ten minute process just to sort through what you're feeling."

"_That's_ what I want for my perfume line."

"You do understand that abstract design isn't appreciated by the masses. People like to be spoon fed their products."

"I don't care about the masses, Mr. Kinney."

Well, that's one point that they can certainly agree on. And if the campaign fails abysmally, he can always tell her that he told her it would. Brian's always been confident in everything he's put his name to, but this is somehow different. What she's asking from him is something that he knows very little about, as does his art department staff. They've all taken art history classes, art theory, but to do what Justin does isn't the same. What Justin does he's had since birth and in no amount of time can be learned. At this point, Brian can only hope that seven years of fucking an artist has made him qualified to at least mimic the art.

"Alright, we'll come up with some new boards then. Cynthia can arrange a time for you to come back to the office to see the new designs, and we can discuss the terms of the contract from there."

She raises her brow at that, apparently surprised that he would assume she'd be signing anything. Blackwell will sign though, he's sure of it. She's running out of time and is far too obsessed with one Justin Taylor to let this opportunity pass her by. Little does she know that Justin won't be playing a single part in this campaign. And as far as Brian is concerned, Justin won't be playing a part in his life anymore either. Let him have his musicians with tiny dicks. His fucking loss.

Their meeting officially over, Brian escorts Blackwell to his office door. They're halfway across the room when said door opens and in walks Sunshine pushing a goddamn stroller complete with urchin. The smile on his face is nothing short of radiant, and Brian wonders what the fuck he's doing here.

"Jus—"

"Shit, am I early, _honey_?"

Brian pales at the nickname, even though Justin is only using it to keep up with the arrangement Brian had laid out the other day on the phone. Except, last time they talked, they weren't going through with this ruse because they couldn't settle on any terms. And, Justin is seeing someone. Somehow Brian is struggling to get over that last part, try as he might. In fact, he doesn't want to have to look at Justin again—and especially that kid—for as long as he lives. It's over between them, and it was stupid to try to sort out some holiday arrangement otherwise.

He about ready to tell Justin to get the fuck out, but the way Blackwell's eyes light up like it's fucking Christmas morning makes him think better of it. Blowing up on Justin—and confessing to the fact that they are in no way, shape, or form partners—would mean the end of the Blackwell account.

"Not really. I was just showing Mrs. Blackwell out." He turns to her. "Mrs. Blackwell, this is my partner, Justin Taylor." And then to Justin. "Justin, this is Susanna Blackwell."

"It's a pleasure," Justin says, taking off his glove to shake her hand. "Brian's been talking non-stop about your account for days. He's been putting in long hours just to make sure everything is perfect. The baby and I've hardly seen him since Tuesday."

Shit. The baby. Brian groans inwardly. Initially, he hadn't accounted for the fact that Justin would have the urchin with him. He doesn't know why. Where else would she be besides with her father, fucking up his life? And now he's going to have to pretend to be her daddy for all of five minutes? The thought makes him want to gouge his eyes out.

"You never mentioned a daughter, Mr. Kinney. I had no idea," Blackwell says, grinning fondly at the urchin.

"That's probably my fault," Justin says, throwing him a devious smile. "When she was first born, Brian wouldn't shut up about her. He'd just go on and on to anyone who would listen. I finally had to start telling him that not everyone wants to hear about our kid, you know? I think he's gotten tired of hearing me tell him to shut up, so he just doesn't say much about her when he can help it."

He's fucking dead. That's all Brian can think, can feel. He's going to murder Justin like Justin has just murdered his image. As if _he_ would ever fucking do something like that. Brian Kinney—doting father? When hell freezes over.

Seething, he watches as Justin picks the urchin up from her stroller, tugging off her hat and unwinding the scarf from around her neck. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold, and she looks less than impressed to be here.

"Can you say hi to Mrs. Blackwell, Elise?" Justin coaxes, bouncing the kid in his arms.

"Oh what a lovely name."

"Brian picked it out."

He needs a drink. No, he needs significantly more than a drink. He needs a bottle of aspirin too. Of all the things that probably should have killed him over the years, it's really going to end this way—death by humiliation. The looks on Ted and Cynthia's faces tell him that he's never living this moment down. Ted will tell Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou will tell all of Liberty Avenue, and he won't be able to show his face anymore.

"Justin," he cautions, forcing a smile on his lips.

But instead of stopping, Justin just goes on and passes the kid to him. He has no choice but to take her, especially under the watchful gaze of Blackwell. Holding the urchin when she's awake is a little different than holding her when she's asleep. It's her eyes, the way she expresses herself through them. The urchin looks at him so trustingly as he settles her against his side. Trusting and curious.

At her age, Gus hadn't been very trusting of strangers. He'd shied away from them or outright cried when meeting someone new. Brian supposes that she is the way she is because she's always been surrounded by so many people, coming and going. Justin is a very social person; it's only natural that his kid would be too.

"She's been saying Dada all day," Justin explains. "So we thought we'd meet him for lunch."

"It must be difficult painting with a child so young in the house. And not to mention travel for your shows."

"I manage. Brian's a huge help, too."

Brian's about to cut Justin off and force Blackwell out the door, but the urchin starts patting him on the head again like she had that morning at Deb's. Her tiny fingers grab at his hair, and he gently tries to pry her grubby hands away. Justin tries to keep from laughing—Brian can tell from how he's not so subtly holding back a smile—and Blackwell watches on with some sort of tender expression.

"Justin, _dear_, we shouldn't keep Mrs. Blackwell from her obligations."

"Yes, I should be going." She walks towards the door but stops just short of it. "Mr. Kinney, please have your assistant send over the contract so that my lawyers may look it over before our next meeting. I'm certain we'll soon be able to reach an agreement on the new ads. And perhaps after the project is finished, you and Mr. Taylor could join my husband and I for dinner to celebrate. I would love to hear more about your artwork, Mr. Taylor."

"That'd be great," Justin says. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"I'll have the contract sent right away," Brian adds, as the urchin tightens her arms around his neck in a hug.

He can almost ignore the hug, the sight of Blackwell walking out the door such a relief. And that contract business? He hadn't expected her to agree to see it so quickly. Brian had imagined another month or two of coming up with boards for her product before she would even consider signing. If it weren't for the fact that he's so pissed off with Justin, he just might offer to blow him.

The office falls into momentary silence, and Brian's tossing his patented get-the-fuck-out look to Ted and Cynthia. They do, though he's no doubt that they'd love to stay for the show. And what a fucking show it's going to be.

The moment the door clicks shut, Brian all but dumps the urchin into Justin's arms, as if she's scalding to the touch. The kid makes a little fuss about the rough fumbling, and Brian can sense that Justin's about to say something about it. Before he can, Brian holds up a hand to stop him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snaps.

"Saving your ass."

"I was doing just fine."

"Oh, whatever, Brian. The look on her face as I came into the room suggests otherwise. You were losing the account."

"Bullshit." He walks around his desk, briefly looks down at his desktop before raising his gaze to Justin again. "I don't want you or that kid here, understand? It's fucking over."

"You're only saying that because you're pissed off about something. You haven't returned my calls for the past two days. So why don't you stop having a queen out and tell me what I did to upset you."

Sometimes Brian doesn't know what he did to Justin that makes Justin so goddamn understanding. Not even Lindsay—WASP-extraordinaire—keeps up her country club façade this long. And it's fucking infuriating, the way Justin does this. It makes _him_ feel like a total asshole when he has every right to be livid.

He needs a drink. Brian can feel Justin's eyes on him as he crosses over to the end table by the sofa where he keeps a bottle of liquor and a few tumblers. Sloshing some Beam in one, he takes a quick drink—feeling the slow burn down his throat—and then turns to Justin.

"You can fuck whomever you like, Sunshine. Just don't ask me to be your goddamn babysitter."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, setting a squirming urchin on the floor.

"The other night? You said you needed a night out?"

Justin's brow knits, a look of genuine confusion on his face. Sitting on the sofa, Brian waits for him to put the pieces together. He personally thinks it's pretty fucking obvious why he upset about the whole situation.

"Brian…" And then there it is—eyes suddenly wide with realization. "I wanted to go out with _you_, asshole. I didn't…when I asked you about a babysitter, I wanted to know if you'd mind arranging something. You know, because I haven't lived here in five years and you had experience with Gus and his sitters. You remember that agency you, Mel, and Linds found Annie through? Yeah, that."

This is the thing that gets Brian about his once-sort-of-partner—Justin doesn't always say what he wants. And he's really fucking notorious for not being up front about stuff when chances are Brian's reaction is going to be less than ideal. So he pulls this shit, and Brian ends up being more pissed off than he would have been in the first place.

He should have just fucking asked for the agency's number. Or, Brian would have been more than happy to make the arrangements since he was already on file at the office. And just as he's about to tell Justin exactly that, Justin beats him to it.

"I hate it when you do this!" Justin says, running his hand through his hair before throwing it up in frustration. "You just jumped to the worst case scenario and shut down on me, Brian."

"If you just said what you wanted in the first place, _Sunshine_…"

Silence reigns for a minute or more, Brian holding Justin's gaze. Sunshine looks like he wants to strangle him, and the feeling is pretty fucking mutual. But in the quiet, the moment for that seems to fade. Brian stares down at his new Armani loafers and wonders how in the hell they always seem to do _this_.

The tension in his chest eases at knowing that Justin wanted him and not someone else. If he's honest, Brian's always thought that the day might come when he'd be too old for Justin. For fuck's sake, he's almost—and it's painful to even think it—_forty_, and Justin's still in his twenties. It's unclear to him why Justin's still hanging around like he always has, showing up when he least expects it and throwing Brian's whole world off its axis. But Brian's not going to complain about that when his world seems so much better off kilter.

"I guess we haven't always been particularly good at communicating with each other," Justin says lightly, joining him on the sofa.

"Unless it's with our dicks," Brian adds, by way of an apology.

He feels Justin's lips skim across his jaw and smiles despite himself. There are certain perks to have a twenty-seven year old temporary-lover at his age. And one of those perks happens to be the twenty-seven year old sex drive to compliment it.

Brian leans back against the sofa—half-lying, half-sitting—and Justin sidles up next to him, pressing open mouth kisses on his neck. His eyes flutter shut and breath hitches when Sunshine's fingers slip across his torso and up to rub his nipple. If Justin was after the undivided attention of his cock, he certain has it. In spades.

The moan that slips from his lips is drowned out by the urchin's babbling and incessant _Dadada_from the middle of the floor. They manage to ignore it for a few minutes longer—touching and kissing—before what sounds like a stack of folders smacks the floor.

"Uh oh."

Jesus fucking Christ.

Sure enough, there are a stack of folders spread out on the floor, thankfully the contents still fairly intact. And right next to that is the kid, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, her expression one of complete confusion.

He groans, slowly turning towards Justin who is smiling at him.

"She's starved for your attention, Daddy. You've been neglecting us for days."

"Call me that again, and something is going to be neglected for days," Brian says, grabbing Justin's half-hard cock for emphasis.

His hips twitch, but Brian lets him go quick enough that it's not very pleasurable. Justin kisses the side of his mouth and then slaps his leg playfully.

"Come on, you can buy us lunch, Mr. Kinney. We're starved."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Look who's here!" Debbie shouts, delighted, as Justin settles the urchin into a high chair at the end of the table. "There's my little Elise."

Brian thinks that the kid takes offense to having her cheek pinched, but if Deb hasn't caught on in close to forty years, she never will. And the kiss to the forehead—red lipstick mark left in its wake—isn't received too favorably either. God only knows what's gotten into the urchin today, but she does seem a little out of sorts.

"So what are you three doing out?" Deb asks.

"Brian's promised us greasy burgers and fries. We're cashing in on it."

"You did?" Debbie glances over at Brian, who stares coolly back at her, and then to Justin again. "Well good for you, baby."

He fears that look of Deb's—too much questioning and not enough minding her own fucking business. And he knows what she's thinking. Did all of their friends have to jump to conclusions the moment they see he and Justin together? Are their lives really that pathetic?

"It's just lunch, Deb," Brian says, skimming the menu despite knowing it by heart.

She snatches it out of his hands before he even makes it to the side dishes and dutifully recites, clearly annoyed, "Turkey on whole wheat, hold the mayo. What'll it be for you, Sunshine?"

Justin puts in his order—a heart attack waiting to happen—and he and Deb look over the menu to find something suitable for the urchin. Brian thinks they decide on macaroni and cheese, but isn't sure because he's too busy tuning out the kid's constant stream of nonsense she's directing towards him. She smiles, throws around her hands, and smacks the table a couple times, laughing. She's definitely inherited her penchant for flirting from Justin.

As soon as Deb leaves to put in their order, Brian feels Justin's light kick against his shin. He raises an eyebrow at that and watches as Sunshine reaches across the table for his hand. Their fingertips loosely meet, Justin's hand then attempting to make it full blown handholding, but Brian puts an immediate stop to it.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Come on. Don't act like the great Brian Kinney is above handholding. We did it on more than one occasion right here in this very diner."

"Yeah, only ever under the table and when I was feeling particularly sorry for your ass."

Justin kicks him again, a little harder this time. And in an act of retaliation, Brian slips off his shoe and rubs his socked toes against Justin's calf. Sunshine's expression goes from put-out to turned-on in a matter of seconds.

"Now there's a good boy."

"Shut it, Brian."

At Justin's scathing look, Brian slips his shoe on and fights back a smirk. He plucks the _Out Pittsburgh_ from its usual spot behind the napkin dispenser and opens it from the back, leisurely browsing the singles ads for the sport of it. Not much amuses him like pathetic queens desperate enough to put an ad in the local fag rag in order to turn a trick.

He catches the kid trying to grab at the paper from the corner of his eye and Justin nudging her hand away at each attempt. When Justin starts to talk to her—presumably to draw her interest elsewhere— Brian does his best not to listen in. However, Justin brings up the urchin's home-wrecking mother, and Brian can't help but pay attention.

"Are you excited to see Mommy, Eli?"

"Mamamama," the urchin rambles, now focused on the stuffed toy that Justin handed her out of the diaper bag.

Brian cocks an eyebrow, continuing to skim the personals. "And when do we get to meet your infamous baby-mama?"

"She's flying in for Elise's birthday. And she's not my _baby-mama_."

"Seems pretty involved for a surrogate," he returns with an indifferent—and yet so not indifferent—shrug.

"Delaney is a friend."

"Did you fuck her?"

Admittedly, Brian asks because he's a little bit curious how this whole urchin thing came about. He'd never say it outright, though. He wonders how special this Delaney chick is to Justin, whether she's just a friend or a Lindsay. Somehow it makes a difference in Brian's mind. Because he would have fucked Linds—_had_, really, more than once—if she'd wanted to make Gus the old fashioned way. Linds is special like that to him—she's the only woman he would ever consider having hetero-sex with.

He'd told her that once. She'd said she loved him, too.

Brian wants to know if Delaney is special to Justin like that, if he'd go out of his way to give her what she wants. Part of Brian thinks not, that that place in Justin's life is reserved especially for Daphne. But it's been so long and he knows so little about Justin's life now that he could be wrong.

"No, not that it's any of your business."

He's relieved to hear it for reasons he doesn't quite understand, maybe because she's less of a threat to him this way. While he gets the impression that Justin cares about her, she's not so important that Justin couldn't live without her.

"Why do you even give a shit?" Justin asks.

"I don't. I was just making conversation." Brian shrugs and takes a sip of his water. "I don't remember it being a crime to ask about your life, especially considering I'm not in it anymore."

The more he tries to explain himself, the more he realizes that he should just shut the fuck up already. Rambling will only encourage Justin to think that he does care, which he really doesn't. Not much, anyway. And if he _does_ care a little bit, it's only because he's curious about whether or not the urchin is a permanent fixture in Sunshine's life now.

Just when Brian thinks they are done with the conversation—Justin having pulled out his phone and started messing with it—Justin pushes his cell across the table. Hazel eyes flick down at it and see a picture of a blonde young woman with long, frizzy curls. Somehow she looks vaguely familiar.

"That's 'Laney," Justin says, grinning. "Since you apparently don't give a shit."

Twat. Justin always had been suspiciously good about reading between his lines. He lets his eyes fall to the photo again, getting a better look at her this time. He does remember her from a picture that Justin emailed him sometime last year. The baby shower, he thinks. All Brian remembers is thinking that _she_ sure as hell wasn't glowing, but Sunshine was.

It's hard to tell who the urchin favors more. With Gus it had been much more obvious. He guesses the curls come from her mother. But that nose is all Justin, Brian thinks with a small smirk. He loves Justin's nose. He's never told that to Justin. And never fucking will so long as he lives. And why the hell does he give a damn in the first place who in the hell the urchin looks like?

"She's alright," Brian says with a shrug, returning to his paper.

"She's talented. You'd really enjoy her artwork, Brian. She primarily does sculpture, but her watercolor is something to see. I have no idea how she does what she does."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Justin smiles. "Blond, artsy types are your thing. You'd love her."

Brian doubts that. Not that he has a type; he can admit to that much. But that he'd love her? Not fucking likely. He could never love the mother of Justin's brat. Hell, he could never love Justin's brat. What's Sunshine expecting? That they're going to spend Christmas as one big fucking family? Not happening.

"So you're spending Christmas with her too?"

"No, she won't be in until the day after." Justin's gaze falls on the napkin in his hands that he's meticulously shredding. "I have to spend some time with Mom, and I have some plans to go to Michael and Ben's and Debbie's. But I was hoping to see you as well."

Brian wants that, wants _Justin_. They'd never celebrated the holidays together for the first couple years, but when they had, it'd been something to experience. For Brian, Christmas with Justin and Gus and the rest of the family had been the closest thing to a real Christmas he'd ever experienced. A definite far cry from what he'd had growing up. And he wouldn't have particularly minded having that back this year.

Well, if it hadn't been for the urchin.

"I might be busy."

"Because of Gus. Yeah, I completely understand. If you have some time though…"

"Have some time for what?" Debbie asks, bringing their order.

"It's nothing, Deb," Justin says.

After clearing off the tray, Deb puts her hand on her hip and looks down at Brian, eyebrow arched. "You're not giving Sunshine a hard time, are you?"

"Really, Deb. We're just making plans for Christmas," Justin interjects.

"Oh, well then. Listen here, Ebenezer," she begins, her finger pointed at Brian and her tone one of no nonsense, "you're coming to my house on Christmas Eve with the rest of the family, and you're going to fucking love it."

In a move of strict self-preservation, Brian doesn't say a word. He doubts that he'll "fucking love it" since the sleepover a few days ago was enough to have him questioning why it is that he's friends with these people in the first place. Time has taught him that not saying anything is always interpreted as an affirmative in Debbie's mind. So when he doesn't show up—because that's a real possibility—he can always remind her that he never agreed to anything.

Justin thanks Deb for bringing their food and gets the urchin started on her lunch. Brian thinks that Justin wanted to be rid of her as much as he did. Brian loves Deb, but sometimes he's grateful that she's only his surrogate mother.

They dig into lunch, Justin regaling him with tales of New York and the urchin interrupting the conversation every now and then for a queen out. Sunshine has the patience of Job to deal with her, excusing her behavior as nothing more than needing a nap. Brian questions that, thinks it's more of a personality flaw than anything.

"So what are you doing tomorrow night?" Justin asks, adjusting the urchin's bib for what must be the fifteenth time in five minutes since she seems to have a personal vendetta against it. Brian doesn't blame her; he'd be pissed if anyone dressed him in something with ladybugs on it too.

"The usual. Friday night at Babylon."

Sunshine hums his acknowledgement, blue eyes flitting over to Brian and then back on a spoon full of mac and cheese. "How set are those plans?"

Brian knows that tone. It's Justin's I-want-to-make-plans-to-come-over voice. And that, inevitably, always leads to fucking. Suddenly, Sunshine has his complete and undivided attention. Brian remembers how Justin wormed his way into his life in the first place—just like this. Because Brian, after all, finds it painful to go without Sunshine's ass for more than…say, four hours at any given time. And much like then, he's willing to reschedule just about anything to get in it.

"How flexible do you need them to be?"

"My mom's going out of town with Tucker to pick up Molly from Dartmouth. She'll be gone the whole weekend."

Brian smirks. "Keep going."

"Elise goes to bed around nine—"

"Hey, Justin!"

At the sound of his name, Justin looks around Brian and grins, waving. Brian glances over his shoulder to see Deb standing just outside the kitchen talking to the diner's usual cook, Ernie. He's been working here ever since Brian was a kid, though he'd had way more hair back then and less of a beer belly. Before Brian knows it, Justin is out of the booth—lunch left half-eaten—and walking towards Ernie and Deb.

Apparently, it's _his_ job to make sure the urchin doesn't choke on a macaroni in the meantime. Brian looks at her, and she looks at him. He glares—warning her off any impending queen outs—and she gazes back at him, unimpressed. The urchin keeps her temper in check though, which is all Brian is asking for at this point. He goes back to eating the rest of his turkey sandwich and not-really-reading the paper.

"Uh oh."

Oh for fuck's sake.

Brian looks up, and she's got a fistful of squished mac and cheese in her small hand. Definitely not classified as an "uh oh". Before she can do any more damage—like getting it in her hair or all over her clothes—he holds her hand, pries open her fingers, and takes a napkin to the mess.

"Don't you know how to feed yourself yet?" he grumbles.

"Bahbahbah. Muh!"

"You better hope you inherited Sunshine's artistic abilities." Brian wipes her face free of cheese sauce. "Because you sure as hell don't have a future in public speaking."

"Dada," she babbles, scraping her spoon across the table.

"Oh my god, you have the most beautiful baby."

In the struggle to get the urchin clean, he hadn't realized some young twink had walked towards them. Brian appraises him briefly, not really seeing anything interesting at first glance. He's always preferred his twinks to look like school boys—preferably with blond hair and blue eyes—and this one doesn't make the cut. The twink apparently fails to notice his general disinterest, however, and sits on the seat formerly occupied by Justin.

"How old is she?" he asks, cooing at the urchin.

"Almost twelve months," Brian says flatly, tacking on a silent _and do you fucking mind?_.

"Aren't you such an adorable little girl? You have your daddy's pretty lips, did you know that?"

The twink throws Brian a heated, meaningful gaze, and it makes Brian want to be sick. He's heard a lot of shitty pick-up lines over the years, but never something as disgusting as comparing his mouth to "his" kid's in an overtly sexual way. And their lips look nothing alike in the first fucking place. Very few times has Brian ever rejected a trick when his dick hasn't been touched in the past six hours, but this is one of those times.

"Listen, Casanova—"

"Excuse me," Justin interrupts him, walking towards them and looking more pissed than Brian has seen in awhile.

The twink raises an eyebrow and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "And who the hell are you?"

Justin's mouth drops open, incredulous. He looks at Brian, then back to the twink. Brian has to suppress a smirk; seeing Justin jealous has always been amusing to him, even when Justin was still at St James. Sunshine had staked out his territory very early on—that territory being _him_—and god help the poor bastard who crossed that boundary. Brian's ego always benefited from his Sunshine's jealous queen outs, despite the fact that he'd never let Justin lay claim to him.

"I'm his partner," Sunshine retorts.

That's news to Brian, but the look Justin shoots him when he's about to speak up tells him to shut the fuck up. The promise of weekend sex with Sunshine hanging in the balance, Brian keeps his mouth closed. While he doesn't need Justin to get laid, he'd much prefer it's him than some random trick at Babylon. Justin's too good to pass up.

The twink gazes from across the table to Brian, disappointed. "Well if you ever decide to ditch the housewife for a newer, better model, the name's Mario. I just started at Torso."

He leaves as quickly as he came, and it's probably a good thing for him. Justin sends the twink a scathing look as he collects a take-out bag and leaves the diner. Then, he turns to clean-up the urchin, who has made a mess of the macaroni and cheese while Brian was in the process of trying to lose the trick.

Brian half-expects Justin to make some comment about the whole thing, but he's strangely silent about it. In fact, he just goes back to eating the rest of his lunch, though Sunshine more stabs his fries into his ketchup than dips. Not wanting to deal with a now-pissy Justin, Brian takes the last bite of his sandwich and turns the page of the paper.

He nearly fucking chokes.

There, in the middle of the page, is Ian with his fucking violin, under the headline of _PIFA Graduate Returns to Pittsburgh for PSO Concert_. His stomach knots up, but not because of jealousy or near-decade-long feelings of resentment. It's probably just the shitty diner food.

Still, he glances up at Justin—who is wiping the urchin's face with a baby wipe—and takes a long, hard look at him as if he might just disappear.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"You weren't really going to pick up that guy, were you?" Justin asks hesitantly as they walk back towards Kinnetik.

Brian considers it—not whether or not he would have fucked the guy, but how he wants to answer Justin. There's no way he would have gone through with it; he does have _some_ standards, and the twink looked like a total waste of time. But saying that to Justin might give him the wrong impression, that he somehow had warmed to the idea of monogamy or some shit. Which he hasn't. Never has, never will.

But fuck it. Justin knows him well enough to know that he's just being a little more picky than usual. Besides, the weird tone of voice Justin is using—uncertain and maybe even fearful—makes him uncomfortable, and Brian wants nothing more than to set the record straight just to get that comfort back.

"The kid was a freak. And not the good kind like Dungeon Master Don."

"How is Don? I haven't seen him in forever!" Justin asks, taking off on a random tangent.

"He just got married a couple months ago. Apparently there's at least one other fag in glorious Pittsburgh that has a mummification kink."

They both wrinkle their nose at the idea, glance at each other, and laugh at their similar thinking. Brian's never been one to begrudge anyone their kink, but some of them are fucking out there.

"Well I'm glad."

"For Don? I don't wish matrimony on even my worst enemies, but yeah, I guess. It's nice to have someone around every now and then."

"I meant the guy at the diner," Justin clarifies, bumping playfully into Brian's shoulder as they stop in front of Kinnetik. "Looks like this is your stop."

Brian smirks. "No rest for the wicked."

He takes Justin by the lapel of his jacket, pulls him forward, and doesn't hesitate in slipping his tongue between Justin's lips. Sunshine tastes like salty French fries and root beer. It's sort of nice. It's even nicer when Justin wraps his arms around his neck to give him a little more leverage. Brian doesn't want to fucking stop, especially when the urchin is sound asleep and therefore incapable of being a stupid, little cockblock like she usually is. But Justin has to get home, and Brian has a giant stack of papers to look over before he can even think of his loft or Babylon.

"Are we on for tomorrow?" Justin asks in a whisper against his lips.

"Yeah."

"You want to come over for dinner?"

"Are you making your cream sauce?"

Justin playfully slaps his cheek. "That's for dessert."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote:<strong> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think of the chapter. :) Feedback is food for the muse! Chapter five hasn't been started yet due to some holiday projects, but I'm planning on starting it in a few days!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter:** 5  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 6,546  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, sexual situations, platonic Brian/Mikey kiss, brief mention of past Lindsay/Brian, brief discussion of child abuse  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter, everyone! The holidays were quite busy, and when I finally had the time to write, Brian wouldn't cooperate and follow my outline. He needed to talk about his insecurities and daddy issues. This was the result. But let us celebrate a couple small progresses here all the same. :) As always, a very big thank you to L for betaing this!

* * *

><p>For five o'clock on a Friday, Woody's is fucking packed. After a quick scan of the room, Brian realizes—disappointingly enough—that almost everyone in here ranks somewhere between ogre and troll. He's not feeling generous enough for a pity-fuck, so he heads over to the bar, pays for a beer, and crosses the room to their usual table.<p>

The guys are already here and, by the looks of it, already one round in. As soon as Emmy Lou spots him, he stops nursing his Cosmo and begins waving wildly as if he's just been crowned Miss US-fucking-A. Heads turn because of the gesture, and then heads _really_ turn after seeing Brian. Brian just smirks; it's good to be the hottest fag in Pittsburgh. Even at—_shit_—thirty-nine.

"You're late," Mikey says when Brian pulls up a stool. "We were worried something happened to you."

"_Michael_was worried," Emmett corrects. "The rest of us just figured you just met some twink between here and your car."

There's a collective laugh, and Brian doesn't bother to contradict the statement. The fact of the matter is that he'd just got tied up with business at Kinnetik. Legitimate business, not the sort of_business_that he occasionally passes off as a mid-afternoon appointment.

Long ago Brian realized—as his interests drifted slightly from nailing as many asses as he possibly could in one night to the growth of his businesses—that his so-called friends ask far fewer questions when they think he's acting the same way he had at twenty. As much as they bemoan his over-the-hill-club-boy routine, Brian knows that they prefer it to any alternative.

So he smiles, listens to Ted and Michael pick up the conversation they'd started just before he arrived. Something boring enough to make Ted an expert on the subject and dorky enough to make Mikey lap it up. Brian only half-listens, deciding to casually cruise some decent looking guy near the pool table that he has no real intention of fucking. At least, not tonight. Tomorrow night, maybe.

"Mmm!" Emmett hums to get Brian's attention before placing a hand on Brian's arm and swallowing his drink. "I just saw the flyer for tonight. And _why_the hell didn't you tell me that you got DJ Antoine? I saw him this summer when I went to visit Piper in Philadelphia. He was disc-jockeying at Shampoo. Do you remember? That club I told you about? Anyway, my god, he's fabulous."

"He'd better be for what I'm paying him," Brian mutters, taking a sip of beer.

"How do you know him?" Emmett asks.

Brian smirks. "Biblically."

Emmett shoots him a withering look. Because of his answer or because he fucked the DJ, Brian isn't sure. Maybe both. He doesn't have the heart to tell Emmy Lou that the guy plays music better than he fucks. Much, much better. And that's not necessarily a testament to his profession.

"You'll let me know how it goes, Theodore."

Ted nods to him. "Everything will be taken care of, Bri. I'll have a write-up on your desk first thing Monday morning."

"Wait, you're not coming with us to Babylon tonight?" Michael asks suddenly, hurt-puppy face out in full force.

Brian hates that face. Hates it because it makes him feel fucking guilty, regardless of how he tries not to. And it's because of that very face that Brian had hoped to avoid the conversation that's no doubt about to ensue. Under no uncertain terms is he going to change his plans, but he'll still feel a little shitty about it, especially since usually it's _him_begging Michael to get the hell out of Stepford Avenue for a night and have some fun.

"I just have some stuff going on."

"What sort of stuff?" Michael presses, tone suddenly one of a mother hen.

Brian shrugs. "Just some stuff."

What's he expecting? This isn't some sort of dyke bar. Brian's not going to open up about his arrangement with Justin like some lezzie. But that'll no doubt come up if he explains to Michael why he's not going to Babylon tonight. Mikey worries about things, far more than he should. And Brian's_love life_ post-Justin has been Michael's number one concern. Brian knows he means well, that Michael worries that he'll get lonely or some other bullshit. But he's not lonely, never has been and never will be. He's _fine_, which is why he shoots Mikey that _look_that tells him to drop it.

And drop it he does until Blake comes back from wherever the fuck he's been—and should have fucking _stayed_—and casually mentions that he hadn't expected Brian to be here before kissing Ted. Five years together and soon-to-be-married and Brian can still barely keep from vomiting a little those two kiss.

"And why would that be, Blake?" he asks, eyebrow arched, more so because he wants to stop this public display of muncherdom than anything else.

"Oh I ran into Justin at the Strip this morning. He said he was picking up some steaks for the two of you. Something about dinner at his place tonight." Blake smiles that boyish smile that makes Brian want to gag. "I think it's really great that the two of you are back together again."

Brian takes a long drink of his beer. "Whoever said we were back together?"

"Oh please, honey," Emmett says, giving him a sidelong glance. "No one needs to _say_it. Your little holiday tryst is the worst kept secret since JFK and Marilyn Monroe."

"Let's hope it ends better," Ted adds.

"It's not going to end, _ladies_," Brian says, sneering. "Because it never started. So fixate your wildest sexual fantasies elsewhere."

He sets his bottle down with a loud _thunk_, marking the end of this discussion. The looks he's receiving are mutinous at best. They're not buying it apparently. He's not really even sure _he's_buying it at this point, but what-the-fuck-ever. It is what it is, and who is he to argue otherwise? Still, he doesn't want to argue with _them_, so Brian stands, throws his coat back on, and says a quick goodbye before anyone can get two words in.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Brian!"

Shutting his eyes, he bites the inside of his cheek in frustration before turning around to face his best friend. If anyone should know that Brian Kinney just doesn't discuss things like this, it's Mikey.

"What are you doing out here?" Brian asks, pausing just short of his Jeep.

Slightly winded, Michael stops in front of him to catch his breath and then says, "I'm worried about you."

Yeah, Brian probably could have guessed that much. Mikey's always worried about him, despite the fact that he has plenty more to be worrying about. Some things never change, he supposes. And he knows damn well what Michael's going to say for that very reason.

Brian was never blind to the animosity between Michael and Justin; he just mostly chose to ignore it. Let the little women work out their own _issues_. He's also well aware that eventually they _had_worked it out. So well in fact that Justin felt comfortable enough to go to Michael when things turned bad with _him_. So, Brian knows that jealousy isn't driving Mikey to warn him off Justin. He just really doesn't understand what _is_and doesn't really give a fuck to find out.

"Is this the part where you tell me that seeing Justin is a mistake?"

"No…well, yes. Maybe. But not for the reasons that you think! You just…you said there wasn't anything going on between you two."

"Save it, Mikey." Brian leans over and kisses Michael quickly and soundly on the lips. "It's just a couple fucks."

"Bullshit! He's going back to New York. You took it really hard last time, and I don't want to see you put yourself through that again."

Brian snorts. "It's not like last time."

"Don't act like this is about sex, Brian."

"Then why don't you tell me what it is about."

Brian sees the challenge met in Michael's eyes, remembers that a few heated words mean nothing to Mikey after all this time. He doesn't know why he still tries to hide this—these feelings for Justin—from everyone. No one is buying it. But just like they don't want to believe he's spending less and less time fucking these days, Brian supposes that he thinks his friends don't want to hear that, yeah, maybe he does miss what he and Justin once had. It's hard enough admitting it to himself.

"This is about you being in love with Justin. Even after all this time. And I honestly believe that you always will be in love with him."

"I was never—"

"Bullshit. You were going to marry him."

"For his sake."

"You never do anything you don't want to." Michael sighs, worries his lip. "Look, I know you. And whether you want to admit it to me or not, you were in love with him for years and you still are. Which is why going over there tonight is a mistake."

He shrugs. "I can't stay away. There, I said it. You happy? You won this one, Mikey."

It's the truth. He can't. Brian isn't sure if he'd even want to if he had a choice in the matter. Being with Justin feels as natural as breathing, to the point where it's hard to adjust when he's not around. And yeah, maybe he did have a hard time of it. And maybe it did take him a while to adjust. So maybe being with Justin over the holidays is throwing all that progress out the fucking window. But the chance to be with Sunshine again—to talk with him, touch him, fuck him—outweighs all the potential suffering to come in the new year.

"Promise me you won't get in over your head?" Mikey pleads, sealing the request with a lazy kiss.

"When have I ever gotten in over my head?"

A knowing glance and then, "About ten years ago, one night under a street light."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Before Brian gets his second knock in, Justin's opening the door and pulling him inside. Brian catches him around the waist, pressing him against the entryway wall. The door shuts with a swift kick from Brian's boot. Then, tongues tangle with a desperate need, as if they hadn't just kissed yesterday. Justin hums, arches against him. At the sound of it, Brian can't help but smile.

"You're early," Justin mumbles between kisses.

"I hope that won't be a problem, Mr. Taylor."

He pulls back, runs his fingers through Brian's immaculately put together hair. "No, not a problem. But I haven't put the steaks on yet. You'll have to wait at least half an hour to eat."

"I can think of a lot of things to do with thirty minutes," Brian says, tone loaded with suggestion.

The statement is punctuated with a firm hold on Justin's ass. Sunshine throws him a _you're incorrigible_look but doesn't bother to outright deny Brian. And Brian knows that Justin enjoys a little foreplay in the kitchen. In all their years together, they've probably used the kitchen more for fucking than for cooking. Maybe tonight they'll even have a chance to break Jennifer's in for her.

"Hold that thought." Justin gives him a swift peck on the lips. "Let me get Eli fed and into her pajamas. Then we'll talk while I take care of dinner."

For what must be the first time to date, Brian doesn't feel that immediate bitterness towards the urchin's cockblocking tendencies. Maybe it's because the whole evening is planned and sex has been guaranteed. Maybe it's because he'd broke said plans by showing up an hour early. Maybe because he just comes to fucking expect it now. Whatever it is, it takes him by momentary surprise. Tonight she's just a minor annoyance to deal with. She'll go to bed, and he'll have his Sunshine all to himself.

Interlinking their fingers, Justin pulls him towards living room, strips him of his coat while he toes off his shoes. And despite a need to take care of the food and the kid, Justin still winds himself around Brian for another kiss—searing and deep. Brian wonders what's gotten into him but decides not to ask. It feels like he has the old Justin back—the seventeen year old twink with a libido to match, the boy who couldn't keep his hands off him.

But Justin does manage to wrestle himself into some semblance of control after a few heated moments. He signals for Brian to follow him, and Brian does. He's a little hard from all this touching and doesn't have the mind to question it even if he wanted to.

When they round the corner, Justin drops Brian's hand and moves towards the urchin in the middle of the room. Her attention half-held by _Finding Nemo_—and Brian will never understand a kid's need to watch the same thing over and over again—and half-concentrated on a bulky Fisher Price miniature piano, she doesn't notice Justin coming up behind her.

"Come here, you!" Justin says, scooping her up into his arms as she squeals excitedly.

Sunshine places a wet kiss on her chubby baby cheeks, and Brian's not sure how he feels about it. After yesterday and the Blackwell fiasco, he's slowly becoming resigned to the fact that she's part of this package deal for the holidays. He's going to have to deal with her attention-stealing ways if he wants Justin.

And he wants Justin.

Badly.

Just as he's begrudgingly beginning to make his peace with it for tonight, the kid sets her sights on him. His stomach rolls a bit because this would all be a hell of a lot easier if she didn't like him, didn't light up whenever she sees him. Like her daddy used to do. Still does. Sometimes. If she didn't look so much like Justin. If she weren't a part of him.

The urchin waves her small hand, says a tiny, giggled, "Hi!"

Justin beams at her, then at him. Expects something. Brian can tell by that look in his eyes. And why does he have to fucking do this? In all their years, Brian has never once wished Sunshine would be_less_tolerant of his acting like an asshole. If Justin weren't waiting for him to come around to the damn kid, everything would be better. Brian hates having the choice. And by having the choice, Brian somehow feels like he's disappointing Justin if he doesn't make some sort of move towards getting along. It's fucking unfair. It's a guilt trip in disguise.

"Hi," Brian grumbles back at her.

He tells himself he does it because it makes Justin happy, and a happy Justin makes for good sex. And he could almost accept that if it weren't for the fact that his little greeting has her reaching for him. Now what the fuck is he supposed to do?

"Here," Justin says, offering her to him.

Before Brian realizes it, he's fumbling the urchin around in his arms. Justin smirks—knowing goddamn well what he's done—and leaves him for the kitchen.

At some point, the urchin stops squirming and Brian overcomes the urge to drop her on the floor. They just look at one another for a long while, Brian wary and the kid curious. Her arms find their way around his neck like they had just yesterday when he was playing daddy dearest, but he doesn't tense and recoil like he expects.

He only _tenses_when she leans over and kisses his cheek, which is really nothing more than squishing her nose against his skin and smacking her lips. Brian grimaces, takes a deep breath, and tries to repress what just happened.

"She definitely hasn't inherited the Taylor gene for kissing," Brian calls as he heads towards the kitchen.

Justin laughs. "She's still learning. Give her some time. She'll be a knockout."

Brian doesn't really doubt that; she looks enough like Justin, and her mother isn't exactly ugly. But Brian doesn't want to think about her mother right now. Or her, for that matter. As quickly as he can cross the kitchen, he dumps the urchin in her highchair, locking the tray in place. She knows she's trapped because her brow furrows and bottom lip juts out. Brian thinks she's going to have a queen out of epic proportions, but the kid is apparently satisfied with just scowling.

"It's progress," Justin says, smirking.

"What is?"

He shrugs. "You, being in the same room with her without staring her down."

"Twat."

"Do you want to give her dinner while I finish ours?"

The look he throws Justin ought to make things pretty clear. No, he doesn't want to feed her. Hell, he doesn't really want to be near her. His quota of niceness has been officially used up for the night, especially for veggie-headed urchins.

"Alright, guess we'll just have to wait that much longer to fuck," Justin says lightly. "I don't mind."

Well, shit.

When Sunshine puts it like that, Brian seriously begins to consider whether giving into his blond boy ass is worth the loss of pride. Sex or pride? Sex or pride? There's got to be a special place in hell for people who pull this sort of bullshit.

In the end, Justin's ass wins because well…it's Justin's ass, and when has Brian ever really put something before scoring it? He takes the small plate of food from Justin and pulls up a chair in front of the kid's highchair. Since she seems to have a particular interest in what looks to be yam, he shoves a spoonful of that towards her. And with very little coordination, she eats it, a dab of it smearing at the corner of her mouth.

"Mmm!" she hums, apparently approving.

Justin looks over at them as he preps the steaks, smiling. "Is it good, Eli?"

"Apparently five star dining," Brian says, feeding her another spoonful, which is immediately followed by another "mmmm!" from the kid.

"I'm a good cook."

"But a better fuck."

"Do you have to make everything about sex?"

Brian recalls the last time Justin asked him something very similar, though back then it had been said with much more criticism than now. He remembers it perfectly. The carnival. The fiddler. His gut always knots up whenever a stray thought about Paganini Jr. comes to mind. Even after all these years, it hasn't gotten any easier. Those months without Justin are forever burned into his mind, haunting him. And it isn't just because he'd suddenly been rejected, unwanted by at least one man on Liberty Avenue.

That's what they all think, all joke about whenever the awkward conversation comes up. But it's got nothing to do with that and everything to do with the fact that for the first time since he was some bruised teenager, he had felt inadequate. Brian had spent more than a decade bleaching away his imperfections until he was the most wanted fag in Pittsburgh. He could almost look Jack in the eye then, could be around his old man and know that he was everything every man wanted or wanted to be.

Until Justin Taylor proved him wrong with some pathetic, greasy haired kid who probably jerked off to concertos and symphonies.

He's glad Jack was a maggot feast by the time Justin ditched him.

Fuck.

"Brian?" Justin calls lightly. "Are you okay?"

Blinking himself free of all those unwanted memories, Brian moves the suspended spoon towards the kid. As she hums her "mmmm!", he tries to look at her properly, maybe for the first time. When he was her age, his old man already hated him. Brian doesn't know how anyone could hate someone so small. Then, he thinks about all the things he's been thinking about her lately—his shit attitude, his blaming her for all his problems.

He's no fucking better than his old man.

Brian always knew it would happen, that no matter how hard he tried, he would never escape Jack or the legacy of horrible fathers that the Kinney men turned out to be.

The knot in his stomach unravels in a wave of nausea.

It's moments like these that he thanks Joanie's god that his son is being raised by a pair of dykes about five hours away. It's moments like these that Brian thinks any more access to his son would leave Gus damaged.

"Brian?"

"Do you ever worry you're going to fuck it up, Sunshine?" he asks, nodding in the kid's direction.

A clatter of some sort of utensil fills the void along with the sizzle of cooking meat. There's footsteps, then Brian feels Justin's arms sliding across his shoulders and over his collarbone from behind. He rests against Justin, tilts his head back so that Justin's mouth is at his ear. The steady rhythm of Sunshine's breaths eases the nausea but does little to settle his nerves.

"Every day," Justin admits, reaching out to ruffle the kid's hair affectionately as she eats. "But I think that's normal."

Justin's lips press against his temple tenderly, and Brian wants to fuck him. Not because he hasn't got off in the past seven hours or anything like that. It's a different sort of itch—more unbearable, more aching. Brian can't open himself up like normal people, can't tell Justin that he just realized he's no better than Jack. That all these years he's been running from the only inheritance Jack had ever left him, and he's succumbed to it without even knowing. That he doesn't mean to dislike _her_—it's not a choice—but he's fucked up and doesn't understand how people can share affection with someone else.

He wants to tell Sunshine that he's sorry.

But he can't.

So Brian stands up and passes the spoon off to Justin without word. Maybe for good measure—maybe because he _wants_Justin to figure it out—he kisses Sunshine on the lips with a sort of desperation that words fail to describe. When Justin pulls back hesitantly, Brian thinks his message got across loud and clear; the question is written all over Sunshine's face.

"I need to go smoke."

"Sure."

"I, uh, don't suppose…"

"I quit, but thanks."

Brian nods. "Suit yourself."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

By the time Justin is finished feeding the urchin—he can hear her giggles tearing across the entryway from kitchen to living room—Brian's already sucked down three cigarettes. The nicotine settles into his nerves, soothes the tension that's all but seized him. But what he could really use right now is some goddamn weed to blur his thoughts until they're little more than a nuisance.

For the first time since seeing Justin again, Brian is almost grateful that the visit is going to come to an end around New Year's. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Justin anymore than he already has. Brian drudges up memories from his childhood, of Jack and Joan and how miserable they were with each other. He never wants to make Justin miserable like that, anymore than he already has.

His only saving grace—the one thing that does separate him and Justin from his parents—is that he actually loves Sunshine. Yeah, he can say it. Love. Capital l-o-v-e. Well, maybe not say it, but he can sure as hell think it.

But, well, sometimes love isn't enough.

His love for his old man sure as hell didn't stop his pop from using him as a punching bag every time he had one too many beers. Lindsay's love couldn't make him straight, not even in those rare moments that he sort of wanted it to. And it's pretty fucking obvious that love wasn't enough to keep Sunshine from walking out one too many times.

Still, it somehow makes a _difference_, even if it can't change a damn thing.

Behind him, the screen door opens with barely a sound. As Brian turns, Justin glances back into the house to check on the urchin and then looks at him. The expression on his face must be telling because Sunshine's turns soft.

"Dinner's just about ready."

"Thanks."

A pause, and then, "Brian."

He shifts to face Justin, hadn't really realized how close they are and ends up with only a few spare inches between them. Justin—as tall as him with the slight step advantage—leans in for a kiss. The brush of Sunshine's lips is a bare whisper. Need bubbles up inside him, but Brian fights it; he doesn't want this to turn into the bruising kisses they've shared for so much of their non-relationship.

But it becomes a struggle when Justin's fingers wind through his hair. Every time their lips meet, it feels like Justin is telling him _I love you, I want you, I need you_and maybe something more. Something that Brian can't place but doesn't even know if he wants to. All he really wants is to drown in it.

"You're a good man."

He barely hears it. Because Justin says it so softly or because he's too wrapped up in kissing, Brian will never know. Just like he'll never know why Justin thinks it. Why, after everything, Justin still believes in some innate goodness that Brian isn't even sure he possesses. All he's sure of—as he flicks his tongue against Justin's warm and inviting lips—is that he wants to try to be a better man because of it.

"Mmm, where's this coming from?" Brian mumbles between a fumbled kiss.

As soon as Justin opens his mouth—to answer him or to deepen the kiss, Brian will never fucking know—his tongue delves into wet, glorious heat. Urgency forces him to moan, almost pained by the intensity of it all. Christ. Justin kisses better than most guys fuck.

A gasp for air and then, "I know you."

Left breathless, they break, foreheads meetings. Justin toys with the ends of his hair, and Brian tries to settle his hands on Justin's waist but finds them wandering up his sides, across his stomach. He presses against Justin, moves them into the house because it's too cold outside to be without a coat for very long.

"Don't think too much, okay?" Justin asks, straightening Brian's collar.

"I'm not." And Brian is surprised at how easily the lie comes.

"You are. I can tell, Brian. You only ever look this miserable—"

"—I'm _not_miserable—"

"—when you're thinking about your dad."

The comment makes whatever witty retort he has prepared die on his tongue. All these years, and it still amazes him how Sunshine understands him better than he does himself sometimes. Brian doesn't think he's an easy person to read, but somehow Justin manages.

"I'm not going to ask you to tell me what's going on because I know you won't. Just…I told you this before. You're not your father. So if that's what's bothering you, don't let it."

He isn't sure how he's supposed to respond to that. Part of him thinks that Justin is a biased little shit who's blinded by his feelings. Then he remembers how easily Justin sees his flaws, how quick Justin has always been to call him on his bullshit. Brian wants to trust Sunshine on this, but he can't help but question it.

"Okay?" Justin asks, shaking him lightly by his shirt. A quick kiss and then, "Not another word."

With the way Sunshine is looking at him, Brian doesn't have much of a choice. He zips his lips with his fingers. "Not another word."

"Good, now let's eat. And with any luck, Elise will fall asleep watching _Finding Nemo_ and _then_…"

Justin wiggles his eyebrows and has the stupidest grin on his face that Brian has ever seen. It also happens to be one of the most adorable too. This whole kid thing has a hell of a lot of drawbacks, but the one perk of the whole situation is that there's a definite anticipation building between them. Like the longest game of foreplay he's ever played. Not that it would take much, mostly because Brian Kinney doesn't do foreplay. But it's there, keeping him alert to every move Justin makes. And when the kid does go to sleep, Brian has no doubt that Justin will pounce.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Dinner goes smoothly enough and Justin is still as good a cook as Brian remembers him to be. As much as he hates to admit it, there _was_something nice about Justin's home cooked meals. Even if it does make him feel like a fucking Stepford Fag.

But he tells Justin as much all the same, mostly just to see him smile, to hear the sheepish _thank you, Brian_. Maybe just to earn a few more brownie points to cash in later tonight, Brian finds himself carrying some dishes to the sink while Justin cleans and preps them for the dishwasher. It feels so damn domestic that Brian briefly thinks he's going to be sick.

Then Justin's hand is on his cock, stroking him through his jeans, and suddenly sick is the last thing he's feeling.

Slipping his hand over Justin's, Brian increases the pressure on his dick until his hips are twitching for more contact. Justin moves against him, pushing him against the sink and assaulting his neck with perfect Sunshine-y lips. His head rolls back, eyes fluttering shut as Justin works his fucking_glorious_magic on him.

"Suck me off," he says, strained, as if his throat is about to give way to a moan.

Justin kisses him carelessly on the mouth. "Yeah. _Fuck_. Just hold that thought."

It's physically painful for Brian to untangle himself from Sunshine, to feel the heat leave him. Christ, he just wants to get off already. His own hand replaces Justin's, teasing himself through the denim of his jeans as he waits for Justin to come back from checking on the urchin.

Images of Sunshine's mouth wrapped around his cock, taking him in deep, torture him. Memories of heat and wetness and the best fucking tongue known to mankind running along his cock. Sucking. The gentle humming that sends a rush up his dick and to his balls. He's fucking _aching_.

"Sunshine!" he calls, voice thick with arousal and demand.

"We have a small problem."

"Yeah, well I have one giant one."

"Come here."

It's hell to move, almost unbearable. Brian walks a bit stiffly towards Justin, turns the corner and nearly runs into him. Arms slip across Justin's middle, pulling his pert little ass right up against Brian's cock. Without hesitating, Brian rocks easily into Justin's ass as his lips find that spot on Justin's neck that drives him up the fucking wall.

"Brian, please."

"Gladly."

"Not that!" Justin swats at his head. "Elise is still up."

Hazel eyes snap to the scene in front of him—the kid sitting on the couch wide awake, eyes glued to the tv as she chews on the ear of her stuffed hedgehog.

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_!

"I thought you said she'd fall asleep?"

Justin shrugs, apparently equally as disappointed. "I thought she would! She usually never makes it to the turtles."

"Well what the hell are we going to do?" Brian asks, voice edging on desperation. "Jesus fuck, Justin. I know I have a reputation of fucking any time, any place, any circumstance, but I'm not fucking you when the kid is still awake!"

"No, I know. Let me think."

"Think quickly."

When Justin brings his thumb to his lips and chews on his nail out of nervous habit, Brian nearly cums against blond boy ass. Sunshine has no idea just how hot he can be sometimes. And Brian, well…Brian never realized that something like nail biting could be sexy enough to make him cum in his pants. But it is, and Brian doesn't question it for a moment. He just tries to suppress the urge long enough.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"She always falls asleep in her stroller. So we'll just bundle her up, walk up the street, take a loop around the park, and then put her to bed. Simple."

The idea of going outside in the not-quite-freezing-but-still-unpleasant weather sounds really fucking terrible. But the idea of waiting until talking fish lull the urchin to sleep sounds even worse. Frustrated, he rests his cheek against the top of Sunshine's head and takes a deep breath.

"Let's get this fucking over with."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"How's Gus?"

Brian glances over at Justin pushing the kid in her stroller. He's never been much for small talk, and this whole ordeal feels far too domestic. But they're going to have to pass the time somehow—the urchin sure as hell isn't sleeping, just babbling away as they approach the park—and he likes to talk about his son.

"He's fine. Really smart. A good kid." Brian huffs a laugh, holds back a smirk. "He's a lot like Lindsay."

"I haven't seen him in ages. Shit, the last time was when he was…six? Yeah, he'd just turned six and we took him to Centre Island and the AGO."

Fishing around in his pocket, Brian pulls out his phone and brings up an image of Gus from their visit last month. In it, Gus is standing in front of a giant dinosaur replica at the Carnegie Science Center. No matter how many times Brian had asked him to take a serious picture, Gus kept making faces. And this one features him sticking out his tongue and tugging on his ears. He passes the phone off to Justin without so much as a look.

"Oh my god, he's you in miniature," Justin says with a laugh, his eyes feasting on the picture.

Brian nods. "Except he's got better manners."

"He's so tall." Justin stares at the phone for a minute or so longer and then hands it back. "Does he still like art?"

"He's still enrolled in art classes. Lindsay thinks it's good for his development. I guess he likes it well enough, but he's been talking non-stop about soccer lately. He's in some kiddie league."

"Taking after his old man, then."

"Maybe," he says, shrugging.

Half expecting Justin to keep going on about Gus, he's surprised when the conversation dies off. Not because they don't have anything to say—Brian could, in theory, talk about Sonnyboy for hours—but because there's a sudden tension in the air. And when he looks at Justin, Brian can see the tightness on his face, the white-knuckled grip he has on the stroller.

"Brian, um…what did you tell him when we…when we broke-up."

Eyes meet, and Brian had no fucking clue that something like that would bother Justin so much. But it's written all over his face, the way his eyes are slightly narrowed and bottom lip is puffed up from worrying at it. Brian isn't sure how to tell Justin; that conversation hadn't been an easy one, especially considering that Sunshine had, literally, been a part of Gus' life from the moment Gus had been born. The memory of the sheer dread Brian had felt two and a half years ago suddenly surfaces, and he's reaching for a cigarette to quell it.

"I told him that Daddy and Jus weren't together anymore," Brian explains, taking a much-needed drag.

"How did he take it?" Justin asks, but Brian can tell that he's afraid of the answer.

How did Gus take it? Gus was crushed when he learned that he wasn't going to see his daddy Jus anymore. He didn't understand why—he was only six years old—and ended up crying hysterically for a good half an hour. Then Lindsay was in tears because Gus was in tears, trying to calm him down and only making matters worse. And before the whole fucking fiasco was over, _Brian_was close to tears because of all the damn questions that he didn't have answers for and the fact that his kid was so choked up and inconsolable that he'd stop breathing for a second or two.

_Fuck._

"It was hard, Sunshine. He was, uh, really fucking attached."

Brian doesn't like thinking about that day at the loft with Gus and Linds. It still tears at him, still gets him overly emotional. He's never seen Gus like that; there aren't fucking _words_ to express it. God help him, if he ever sees his son like that again, it'll be too damn soon. And it will kill him. If he'd known fatherhood would do this to him—turn him into an emotional queen at the drop of a pin—he would have never agreed to it. It's too fucking much and it's _everything_.

"I'm sorry." Justin reaches for his bicep. "Brian."

"It was our decision, Sunshine."

"I know, but I never wanted to hurt Gus."

"He's fine now. As perfectly well-adjusted as a kid his age can be."

"Does he—"

"I'm going to go grab a coffee." Brian says, nodding to the Starbucks across the street from this area of the park. "Do you want one?"

"Um, sure," Justin replies, disappointment in his tone likely from Brian shutting down on him.

But what other choice does Brian have? As he walks across the street, he tries to clear his muddled thoughts. He can't talk to Justin about Gus, not like this. He can't relive that period of time when Gus would ask about Justin or would say how much he misses him or would look at pictures of the three of them together. Despite their break-up being for the best, it fucking hurt. Seven years with a blond ball-and-chain would get to even the toughest of purported ice queens.

He's no exception.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Brian takes his time picking up the lattes and getting back to Justin. He doesn't come close to unraveling often, but when he does, it's always difficult to put himself back together. Tonight isn't supposed to be about this—about self-discovery and drudging up the past. It's supposed to be about an honest and easy lay.

Alright, more than a lay. And more than _honest_. Fucking incredible is more like it, and it's not going to be easy. At least, not at first. Maybe the sex will help; it can't fucking _hurt_at this point.

Jogging across the busy intersection, Brian curses the slush from their latest cold-warm spell that splashes onto his designer jeans. Just as he reaches the sidewalk, Brian spots Sunshine and the urchin. And then, he spots something else.

_Someone_else.

He's fucking seeing things, going crazy in his _older_age. Or maybe this is some fucked up, twisted-as-hell nightmare that he's dreaming. If it weren't for the fact that he's holding two steaming lattes, he'd pinch himself.

Because the guy kneeling in front of the stroller and talking to Justin looks a hell of a lot like the fucking Fiddler. Same greasy hair. Same questionable taste in clothing. Same shitty violin case. And same tiny dick, Brian figures.

Same fucking Ian.

No doubt laying it on thick with _his_partner.

And cooing at _his_ urchin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter:** 6  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 7,579  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, explicit sexual situations  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I realize now that whenever I tell you all that the next chapter will take some time to write due to other projects, I really mean that it'll be out in a week. This chapter just wrote itself, and I hope you all enjoy the small victories and accomplishments between Brian, Justin, and Elise in this chapter. Please see the chapter endnotes for a few important links. And, a huge thank you to L for the beta and to C for talking me through this story on a nightly basis. You two are indispensable to my writing process.

* * *

><p>"Brian."<p>

Lifting the cup of hot coffee to his lips, Brian takes a quick drink, liquid burning a path over his tongue and down his throat. Under normal circumstances, he would wait until the latte has cooled the hell down before throwing it back like this. But these aren't normal circumstances, and Brian needs to keep his mouth busy for fear of saying something that he might regret later.

He can't believe that fucking fiddler—the way he was smiling at Justin, the way he was complimenting the kid. It'd taken all his strength not to take him by his coat and throttle him. Who the fuck does he think he is? What fucking _right_ does he have, making those _eyes_ at Sunshine like he wanted Justin to come back to his goddamn two star hotel. Not after everything he put Sunshine through. Brian might be able to forgive Ian for the fucking around—he's only human, after all—but never for all those goddamn promises he laid on thick and failed to make good on. And _never_for convincing Justin that he was something Brian Kinney could never be.

If he wanted, Brian could be everything Justin dreamed in a man.

But that's not love, and the qualities that Justin wants in a man are not the same that he wants in Brian. One botched engagement taught Brian that much. And time taught him that bitching and providing snide and witty commentary on the whole fiddler fiasco wouldn't win him Justin's favor. Not that it came up too often, but all the same. No one likes to be reminded of shitty mistakes, especially not his Sunshine, which is why Brian tries to keep his peace now.

Of course, Sunshine won't keep _his_. Brian doesn't miss the sidelong glances, the occasional sigh, the way Justin's lips relax and thin, relax and thin. He shuts his eyes, silently begs Justin to not go there. Not tonight. Not when they've had an alright evening, and definitely not when it's supposed to get a hell of a lot better when they get home.

But Justin does.

"Would you tell me what's wrong? Aside from the obvious?"

Brian takes a deep breath, tries to suppress his anger. "Nothing's wrong, Sunshine."

"Uh-huh." Justin nods, not believing him for an instant, no doubt. "Which is exactly why _you're_pushing _my baby's_ stroller in public. There's _nothing_ wrong with that picture _at all_."

Fuck, he sort of forgot about that detail. Blind rages will do that to anyone. And grabbing the kid's stroller and insisting that _we shouldn't keep the baby out in the cold, Sunshine_before walking off in the direction of Mother Taylor's house? That had been an act of temporary insanity.

Still, Brian grips the stroller tighter and pushes on. He's not about to fucking admit why he started pushing in the first place. And he sure as hell isn't going to stop, on a matter of pride. Justin can deal with it.

"I'm doing it because I want to," he says, a lie that's particularly hard to get out.

"Oh, right." Again, with the smart ass tone. "Because you just love her to pieces. Brian, come on." Justin huffs. "Don't lie to my face and tell me that you wanted to do this completely domestic act when we both know better."

"Maybe I'm making an effort."

"And I would love it if that were the case, but it's not. You're jealous as fuck of Elise for reasons that I can only guess at. You can barely stand to be in the same room as her."

The frustration in Justin's voice gives him away—how much Brian's disinterest in the urchin is killing him. He's put on a damn good show, Brian thinks. But, it's only obvious that it would wear on him eventually. Brian can't really explain why he's like this, at least not without delving into a shit ton of memories that he's not acknowledged in decades. Memories and facts that he's never spoken with Justin about. And even then, it's not an excuse. An abusive father? An alcoholic mother? Who gives a shit. People become decent human beings with parents like that all the time. Maybe he just never tried hard enough. Maybe it's too late to start.

Brian doesn't really want it to be too late.

"Damn right I'm jealous," Brian admits in a bare whisper. "I'm fucking jealous, Sunshine. Of an infant. Guess what?" And here Brian gets a hell of a lot louder. "Brian Kinney gives a shit!"

"Brian…"

Suddenly, Brian realizes that he really shouldn't be so loud. The urchin is asleep, and he would prefer if she stayed that way, especially after all it cost him to get her there in the first place. A walk in the park and a hellish meeting with Ian. Fuck.

He looks apologetically towards Justin, sorry that he was overly loud. By the softness of Justin's expression, Brian doesn't think he's pissed. Brian doesn't know what he _is_exactly, just not ready to kick him in the balls. It's a definite start.

But there's something else there, too. A look that Brian remembers from the days when he had cancer—a sort of tenderness that Brian hates. Because he thinks it's about weakness. _His_weakness. Who the hell is he kidding? Justin's always been the strong one in this relationship. That look, though—it's maybe even more than that. Surprise, perhaps. A good surprise.

"Thanks. For admitting to it, I mean." A pause and then, "I never expected you to fall in love with her, Brian. I know how you feel about kids. Well, kids that aren't Gus. Of course I'd love it if you'd just keep an open mind about her. If you'd just _try_, even a little. But I know that this whole thing between us right now is just temporary for the holidays. I've really no right to demand from you more than you're offering. It's just sex, and I understand that."

Christ, it's _not_ just fucking sex. It's not _been_ about the fuck since… goddamn it! Justin hasn't been another trick since before he ran away to New York to become a go-go boy. The fact that he got a repeat performance at all should mean something. _Did_ mean something. And by the time…by the time that…_prom_came along…fuck. Brian had been a dead man by prom, lovesick over some teenage kid but just unwilling to admit to it.

And as Brian—in another bout of brilliant verbal dysentery—is about to call Justin on his complete and utter _bullshit_, he _really_ looks at Justin and the words die. Because the hurt on his face after saying that fucking lie—that the two of them are nothing more than fuck buddies with a history—tells Brian everything he needs to know. It's not about sex for Justin either. And they're both so totally_fucked_that it's not even funny.

"You're a twat," Brian mutters.

Really he means _you're a fucking twat for even thinking in that little blond head of yours that this is about my dick and your ass_ and maybe even _did you honestly forget that I love you, Sunshine?_. The way Justin smiles his sheepishly little school boy smile in response—that Brian has always privately imagined was only for him—takes his breath away.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

When they finally get back to Jennifer's, Brian is the one who slips off his gloves, shrugs out of his coat, and gets to the urchin first. He doesn't really understand what it is that draws him to her, but he lifts her from the stroller all the same. While Justin takes off his own coat and starts to fold up the stroller, Brian holds the urchin against his chest and finds some sort of strange comfort in her weight against him.

He never meant to have the sort of reaction to her that he had tonight when he saw Ian kneeling by her stroller. Never meant to feel that sort of visceral _mine_when it came to her. Brian doesn't really like her—she complicates everything—but she's become a presence in his life over the past week. Sort of like Sunshine had ten years ago—unwanted but not unacknowledged. And shit, look how that fucking mess turned out.

Brian holds her until Justin finishes off the stroller and tucks it into the closet, his sudden revelation about this kid causing him some discomfort. It's a relief then when Justin takes her from him, lays her on the couch to strip her of her coat, mittens, scarf and hat while she sleeps. All that movement—followed by a change into her pajamas and a clean diaper—without so much as a peep from her has Brian wondering if she's even _alive_. Then, he recalls that Justin sleeps like the dead, and it suddenly becomes significantly less surprising.

"I hope for our sake that she sleeps that deeply all night," Brian says as Justin zips up her pajamas.

"She might wake up once. Maybe around three. But she's usually a sound sleeper otherwise," Justin explains, picking her up. "Alright, let me put her down, and then I'll be right with you." A smirk. "_Mr. Kinney_."

He'd be a liar if he said Justin's _Mr. Kinney_ hadn't caught the attention of his cock. And because Brian can see this is going to go somewhere very, _very_fast, he slips off his shoes, fishes a strip of condoms and tube of lube from his coat pocket, and heads over to the couch.

As he lies down, Brian tries to focus his attention on his dick, tries to ignore everything else running through his mind. He even palms himself through his jeans to get the blood flowing far, far away from his brain. And he's hard, sure, but not really distracted _enough_. This has never been a fucking problem before.

Something's eating away at him, and Brian can't put his finger on it. Maybe it's the idea of fucking Ian and his goddamn _I'd really love for you to come to see the symphony, Justin_ coupled with a promise of sending tickets and catching dinner. Brian flexes his fist, frustrated with the whole thing. Is this an issue he has with the idea of Justin seeing someone? Someone that isn't _him_? But that doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense because Brian knew about that James guy Justin had been seeing. There was someone before James too, but Brian only heard him mentioned once and by accident. Molly Taylor—before she grew-up a hell of a lot in her junior year—had such a big mouth.

They didn't bother him, though. Not really. Nothing beyond a twinge in his chest. Justin had been far removed from him then, off in New York making a name for himself. And their whole relationship had puttered out before boyfriend number one had ever come along. Brian knows he has some maturity issues, but even then he couldn't fault Justin for moving on.

But the thought of Justin moving on now? And with someone like the fucking fiddler? Not that Justin would… At least, Brian doesn't _think_he would. The closeness between them over the past few days—the meetings, the texts, the occasional call—makes Brian feel something. Something that he very much thought he had come to terms with: this sort of longing for Justin.

Before last Saturday, Brian hadn't given a thought to waking up each day alone. He has for almost three years now. But put Justin in his bed for one night and, _bam!_, sudden hyperawareness to the fact that the only man he ever shared a bed with isn't there. What's more, that one-to-two-second gaze at an unused pillow and the swell of a gutted and hollowed feeling, the unwelcome ache to wake up to someone every morning.

Maybe Mikey was right; maybe he has completely fucked himself by getting involved again. Brian doesn't want to go through another post-breakup "grieving process," as Lindsay had called it. He doesn't want to have to de-Justin his loft—his _life_—again. And he sure as hell doesn't want to come across a stray Capri Sun in the fridge from Justin's last visit before the breakup and almost fucking lose it.

But where the hell does that leave him? It's either go through all that _shit_ or…not. Suffer or do the unthinkable. He has the means now. He _can_ take Kinnetik to New York. He _would_be a fucking success. And more importantly, he could give it a go with Justin. No more lonely beds, no more empty lofts. Just Sunshine as far as the eye can see.

Well, Sunshine and company.

Christ.

Justin would never agree to it. Not if he didn't _try_with the kid. God, why does he have to be such a selfish bastard? Why—for once in his life—couldn't he open himself up to someone, do something really selfless like love the child of his partner despite all the fucking misgivings he has about it?

Brian's not sure what his hang ups even are with her, besides the fact that she's taking Justin away from him. It's not like she's Gus; he doesn't have to worry about being a father to her, about fucking her up so completely that she'll end up a drug-popping alcoholic with a sex addiction. It's something else entirely; he can feel it when she stares at him with her Justin-blue eyes.

Brian doesn't know which is worse—the fear that he could never love her like his father could never love him or the fear that he could. He doesn't even want to think about _that_. And he _can't_think about New York and all that comes with it. Not now.

And thankfully he doesn't have to because he catches sight of a grey blur from the corner of his eye and realizes that Justin's come back in the room. More importantly, has come back wearing a pair of delicious grey pajama bottoms that shows off his perky little ass beautifully. And no shirt.

He drinks in the sight of so much skin, pale and smooth. His eyes glide over the angles and slopes of Justin's body, from jaw to neck, from collarbones to chest, from hipbones and down, down, down. Beneath tented grey, Brian can imagine Justin's cock, half-swollen and red. Can already taste him on this tongue—the salty-sweet of sweat slicked skin and heady tang of cum.

Without even meaning to, Brian breathes a small sigh of discomfort—his own cock now straining—and Justin's bending over him, slipping one leg on each side of him as best he can. So close, he can't keep from touching Justin, from grabbing his thin hips and molding his fingers around Justin's hipbones. And if he settles Sunshine down on his lap, he does it unconsciously, brain too busy processing Justin's half-lidded gaze to be aware of anything beyond that and the beating of his own heart.

"Hi," Justin says, before biting his lip to contain his smile.

"Look at you." Brian brings his hand to cup Justin's jaw, thumb grazing Justin's mouth. "Grinning like a giddy little school boy."

Whatever else Brian has to say in that low, seductive rasp fades when Sunshine's lips part and tongue darts out to wet Brian's thumb. He hums appreciatively, longs for the wet warmth of Justin's mouth and yet doesn't want it. Not yet. First, he wants to imagine.

His fingers slip across Justin's jaw, index pressed lightly against pink, supple lips as if to shush him. Then Sunshine opens for him like a good boy, and Brian slips a finger inside. He presses into strong tongue as Justin sucks him, the pressure and pulse driving straight to his dick. And with his free hand, Brian guides Justin against him, the easy rhythm of Justin's hips sending his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

He can't help but moan, his breaths quickening with each grind against his cock. His lungs feel empty, but that's alright just as long as Justin keeps sucking. Brian wouldn't mind dying like this, though he'd much rather go with his cock in Justin's ass or Justin's in his.

And suddenly, it just isn't enough. Suddenly everything feels shallow, and Brian remembers how clothed they still are, skin almost itching from fine fabric. He withdraws from Sunshine's mouth, lips pink and swollen and so fucking kissable it hurts. Deterred by them, Brian momentarily forgets about stripping to push Justin to him by the back of the neck.

Mouths meet, lips bruising with built up longing. Each time he aches for Sunshine like he had that first night at the loft, or maybe more. It doesn't feel old or worn out—the taste of Justin's mouth, still touched with the taste of red wine from dinner. Fuck, how could Brian have ever thought it could? He'll never tire of the feel of Justin's teeth on his lips, nipping them into a swell. Never tire of Justin's tongue seeking out his own, brushing and tangling and pushing until Brian feels lightheaded and Justin is swallowing his whimpers.

Yes, Brian Kinney whimpers.

But only ever for Justin Taylor.

When Sunshine comes up for air, Brian's fingers wind themselves through Justin's hair and tug. Justin sucks in a breath, swallows, and begins to press his lips against Brian's rough, shadowed jaw. Once, twice, three times, and Brian is exposing it for Justin to take what he will. But Sunshine has a different agenda.

Nimble fingers work at Brian's button-up shirt, the cool air a welcome comfort against his over-warm skin. The tails are slipping off his stomach when Justin begins a slow descent on him, leaving searing kisses and love bites in his wake. Brian's stomach fucking _squirms_from all the heady sensations pooling there and in his balls. And it jumps as Justin flicks his tongue into his bellybutton.

He grips Justin's hair again—thanking God that it's long enough to really grab onto—and pushes him lower, having had enough of this slow torture to last a fucking lifetime. Sunshine makes quick work of his button and fly, Brian's aching cock suddenly free. He half expects to gain some self-control without all that damn pressure containing him, but if anything it only hurts worse, like at any moment he might die. If he gave a shit, it'd be embarrassing how wound Justin could get him with only a promise of a blow job. But he doesn't because this is Justin and Justin is in a league of his own.

Hips jolt as wet warmth descends on him, wraps and writhes against his dick. His breath catches in his throat, lungs burning for oxygen. But he's so deep in Sunshine's mouth, buried in his throat, that Brian isn't sure that switch in his brain that tells him to breathe hasn't been shut off permanently. There's pinpricks of black, probably telling him he should make a conscious effort to inhale, but all Brian can do is buck into Justin's mouth with a sort of blind desperation.

When Justin's hand cups his balls—rolls and fondles them with just the right amount of roughness in time with his sucking—Brian has no choice but to gasp. The air rushes into his lungs, his head suddenly light and floaty.

"Christ, Justin," he pants, licking his lips and struggling to breathe through the attention.

The grip he has on Justin's hair loosens as Brian finds a rhythm, as he rocks easily into Justin's mouth with gentleness that belies his need. Brian runs his fingers through it, over and over again until he has the silky feel memorized.

His gasps and shuddered breaths grow shallow as his balls grow heavier, dick gets harder than he thought possible. Brian feels his orgasm building, building, and _yeah, just like that Sunshine_. He's going to lose it, going to cum down Justin's pretty little throat, going to make Justin swallow every last drop of him.

Just as it starts to get unbearable and Brian is ready to give up, he realizes this isn't how he wants it to go. Save the sucking and the rimming for later; he doesn't want to have to wait for the real thing. Right now, he needs in Justin's ass like he's never needed anything in his entire life.

"S-stop. Sunshine." And Brian can't believe how hard it is to get those words out. "Justin."

When blue eyes peer up at him, Brian sees nothing but frustration. It's not exactly surprising considering that Justin likes to give head about as much as he likes to be fucked. And Brian briefly remembers a long time ago—when Justin was taking baby steps into the world of cock-sucking and butt-fucking—when Justin would look up at him with the same frustration. Only then, there'd been an edge of fear too—that he'd done something wrong, that he hadn't been good enough to please Brian and that Brian was kicking him out.

As if Brian ever had _that_much control over his desires, over their non-relationship.

"Turn around," Brian says, sitting up and pushing off his jeans.

"Shit, I'm not going to last, Brian," Justin warns.

He shifts them both around the couch, pulls Justin's back flush against his stomach, and trails his fingers across Justin's belly. Justin's cock—leaking and red—stands at attention, to the point where it looks painful. When he runs one fingertip down Justin's length, Sunshine shudders and whines against him. He apparently wasn't joking when he told Brian that he was already close without having been barely touched.

God, Brian loves him—kissing Justin's shoulder to punctuate the thought. Loves how responsive he is, how trusting and willing. Fifteen years ago, if anyone had asked him to describe his perfect trick, Brian's imagination would have fallen short of the man in his arms right now. That's probably why he'd said that dreaded three-word-phrase the first night he took Justin home. Inexperienced as Justin had been, there'd still been something unfathomable about how well they fit together, like no one Brian had been with before and nothing he could have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies.

"Fuck me," Justin whispers, voice raspy with want. "I want you now."

"Easy, Sunshine."

"No, bend me over and give it to me hard." Justin moans against his jaw. "Make me feel you for days. Please."

Brian moves his mouth to Justin's ear, whispers, "You want my dick in your pretty little ass? You want me to coat your insides with my cum and feel it drip out of you?"

"Oh god, Brian." Brian feels Justin shiver. "I wish. You don't know how badly I want you to fuck me bareback."

Oh, he can imagine. They'd discussed monogamy on and off before the distance really got to them, but six months into their separation they'd both agreed it wasn't feasible. It never stopped Brian from wanting Justin raw, never stopped him from jerking off to the thought of it though. And as he grabs the lube and condom, as he slips it on and covers his dick—urged by Justin's adamant _I don't need you to prep me, just fucking do it!_—the irresponsibility of barebacking doesn't stop him from imagining it as he pushes inside of Justin.

Brian groans from the immediate tightness around his head. His thumb rubs tense muscle at the small of Justin's back, working him into relaxation. Sunshine eases a little under his touch, allows Brian to move further inside.

It feels like virgin ass, almost like the first time he'd ever been inside Justin. Sunshine's got a vice grip on him, making it both unbearable to be buried in him and unbearable to be anywhere but. He pulls back gently, paying close attention to all the little noises Justin is making, and then slams back in.

This can't be easy for Sunshine—he should have prepped him whether he wanted it or not—but he takes it like he always has, swallowing any sounds of discomfort. Brian knows them all too well though and is more careful as he forces himself inside again.

They set a rhythm—steady and unforgiving—and Brian can feel Justin already unraveling beneath his hands. He wraps his fingers around Justin's cock, strokes in time with their pace, and Justin grips Brian's ass to urge him on. And it's a testament to years and years of experience that Brian is able to keep their rhythm without difficulty despite the fact that he can feel his own orgasm building too fast.

Justin's _Brian…Brian…Brian_ is his undoing, has him panting through the surges of too-much-feeling. He's so fucking close, but Justin breaks first, calling his name in a cry before coating his hand with cum. Brian tries frantically to cover Justin's mouth—because they really _have_to keep quiet—but it's too late.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hopes to god that they don't have to stop before he gets off, his cock driving into Justin's ass. But then it's there, so fucking close, and Justin moves just _enough_ and_fuck_.

His orgasm tears through him, making him think that he's being broken in two. He fills the condom with quick pulses, hears Justin moan from it and clench around him. And while he'll never know in his blissed-out haze, Brian thinks he came with Justin's name on his lips.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

After they've had enough time to recover, they fuck again, this time on the living room floor. It's quick and dirty, and it's also rather loud. Too fucking loud, considering the whole evening depends on a sleeping urchin. So after Brian pulls his tongue from Justin's ass and cleans them both up, they sneak upstairs to Justin's bedroom for round three.

It's really fucking weird doing Justin in a room full of things from his childhood, but Brian manages. Hell, he thinks it's sort of hot. And Justin must think so as well because he's moaning and panting and coming harder than both times downstairs combined. As Brian—barely done tying the condom off—starts planning what they're going to do and where they're going to go next, Justin announces that he's going to die if he doesn't get something to eat and abandons him for the kitchen. After all these years, it doesn't even surprise Brian anymore. Some things are just guaranteed—the sun will rise, politicians will pander, and his Sunshine will need to be fed after two or three fucks like he's still some teenager.

So Brian lies in Justin's bed, listening to the sound of dead air from the baby monitor on the bedside table and staring at a corkboard full of drawings Justin did when he was a kid. There's no denying Justin's talent even then, though it's interesting the ways in which his interests evolved. On the board are at least five pencil sketches of Brian in various stages of undress, the likeness uncanny right down to the unapproachable aura that he's known for.

Justin's not drawn a sketch of him for years, now preferring to capture emotional likeness in slashes of color rather than the defined lines of the human body. He's fucking genius at it too. Brian can stare at his face on these pieces of paper all evening, but he knows he won't feel half as much as he does when he looks at the large-scale painting in his office.

The one Justin titled _Aidan_, after the middle name passed down between father and son for generations in his family.

Brian's always hated the name for that obvious reason, but Justin likes it—thinks it's better than his own Matthew—and thought it added another layer of depth to an already fathomless painting. He learned very early on never to question Justin when it came to art. The one time he had, Brian had wound up alone at The Carlton for two nights, sexless and trying desperately to figure out a way to apologize to Justin without having to do something overtly romantic. So he said nothing about the painting's name and has come to love the piece despite it.

Rolling over and away from the small shrine to him, Brian settles more comfortably into the bed and closes his eyes. Truth be told, he could really use some fucking sleep. It's three in the morning, and he doesn't quite do all-nighters as well as he used to. Brian thinks he can talk Justin into a nap if he wants to, but Brian's not sure that he does. Thirty minutes is still thirty minutes wasted when he's not buried in Justin's ass.

Then there's the small matter of leaving. He'll be damned before he stays overnight; that's a level of kinky that Brian could never really subscribe to. Despite how nice it would feel to fall asleep next to Sunshine again. Despite how badly he doesn't want to have to tear himself away.

The creak of floorboards has him opening his eyes just in time to see Justin walking back into the room and quietly closing the door. He pads across the floor—a little stiffly from getting pounded into all night—completely naked.

Naked and holding a glass of red wine in one hand and a plate of SoftStix pretzels in the other.

Jesus Christ.

Brian can't help but smirk as Justin sinks onto the bed next to him, taking a bite out of one of the pretzels. The cheese—well, that's not fucking _cheese_but more like the byproduct of cheese byproduct—drips down Justin's fingers. Sunshine licks it off, takes a long drink of red wine, and then looks at Brian, content.

Of all the men that could have possibly weaseled their way into his heart, _this_one is the one who managed to actually do it. A guy who drinks fifty-dollar-a-bottle red wine with formaldehyde snacks, naked, at three in the morning. In a lot of ways, it's fucking mindboggling, but in the ways that count, it makes perfect sense.

Brian shakes his head, amazed and says, "Christ, I love you. I must be out of my fucking mind."

It's not gotten much easier to say over five years, but Brian _tries_. He knows it's important to Justin, knows that sometimes those three words were the only thing that kept them together over four hundred miles. Part of him still thinks it's something that Justin—despite no longer being his partner, in the conventional sense of the word—doesn't mind hearing. Brian especially thinks that's true when Justin smiles a little.

"You know, if you wanted a pretzel, all you had to do was ask."

"I don't want a pretzel."

"You love these pretzels."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do."

"They're not even real pretzels."

"They still taste good." Justin pops a whole one into his mouth. "I remember one time we got totally stoned, and you were absolutely dying for these. You seriously would not shut up about them. So we walked clear to the mini-mart on Tremont at one in the morning and bought four boxes."

He smirks. "We ate all of them, if I remember correctly."

"And you begged me for the last one. You said that you'd tell me how much you loved me if I would give it to you. So I did, and then you called me a sucker and fucked me into the couch." Justin chucks at pretzel at him. "You're such an asshole. I can't believe I fell for that."

"Poor Sunshine."

As Brian retrieves the pretzel and contemplates actually eating it, Justin snatches it from his fingers and eats it, smug look on his face. Brian rolls his eyes and shifts to lie on his back, Justin taking another swig of wine before lying on the bed next to him. Pulling Justin towards him, Brian dips down to capture his mouth. Sunshine opens for him easily and with a happy sigh, and he slips his tongue inside to taste him.

Justin tastes a lot like cum, cheese pretzels, and good wine—not exactly the most flattering of combinations. Brian doesn't really mind though, not when, underneath it all, he still tastes like Sunshine. They don't rush it, don't battle to overpower one another. They just take slow strokes and wrap around each other. It's nice; Brian thinks he could go to sleep with a goodnight like that.

"I love you too, you know." Justin runs his finger along Brian's jaw to his chin, blue eyes following the trail and then glancing up at Brian. "I never stopped. Things were just complicated."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," Brian teases.

"Are you trying to be a passive-aggressive shit?"

Brian laughs, wonders how it's possible for a person to be this much of a drama princess. "No, not really."

"Oh. Sorry. I thought maybe you were…referring to Ethan or something."

If Brian had been referring to Ian, he wouldn't have been passive-aggressive about it. Just plain fucking aggressive. He _hopes_ that's not something Justin has ever considered saying to Ian, _hopes_that Justin recognized whatever it was that Ian had offered him hadn't been love.

Still, it does give him an opening to bring up something that has been eating him all night—those fucking tickets to the symphony. Brian wants to think that Justin would tear them up, but Justin's not the sort of person who holds grudges for a long time.

"Are you going to go?"

Justin lifts his head. "Where?"

"To see Paganini Junior wow Pittsburgh with his magnificent violin prowess."

"You say without a note of bitterness in your voice," Justin says sarcastically. "He really got under your skin tonight, didn't he?"

Brian considers asking Justin what fucking planet he's been living on for the past eight years. Of course Ian got under his skin, and Sunshine has to know that. If anyone can read his body language, it's Justin. Seeing the two of them together again—and with a baby no less—brought back some very uncomfortable memories that Brian's tried very hard to forget, images that played out in his mind during those days without Sunshine. And Ian's snide little _So who's her other father, Sunshine? Are you married now?_ as he looked Brian dead in the eyes didn't help matters. Not when Brian could hear the silent _because you're obviously not involved_loaded in the question.

"He's a cunt." And Brian tries to leave it at that.

"And you have Ethan-specific blinders on that prevent you from seeing him as anything else."

Brian's brow furrows. "So you are going to the fucking symphony then?"

A lash of anger burns its way across his gut, and Brian wants to be anywhere but here. In fact, he doesn't even want the answer to his question. Brian can't shake the feeling that he won' t like what he hears. In an attempt to get the hell out of there, Brian eases away from Justin and is about to get up when Justin pulls him back down and pins him to the bed.

"Stop running away from me." A kiss and then, "No, I'm not going to the symphony. I have an infant to take care of and never really liked the symphony in the first place. But, I would like to catch up with him, maybe go out for coffee."

Brian snorts.

"Coffee as in coffee, Brian. Not some euphemism for sex. And it wouldn't be a date." Justin cards his fingers through Brian's hair. "Would you be alright with that?"

"We're not fucking married, Sunshine. Do whatever the hell you want."

"I plan on it, but I wanted to know if I'd have to resort to breaking and entering to get you to take my calls afterwards."

As much as Brian loathes the idea, he doesn't fight Justin on it. He shrugs his defeat, earns a smile and another kiss as reward for him being so understanding, no doubt. It's easier that way, and he has no right to bitch about it in the first place. He's not Justin's keeper. Never has been. That's not the way that their non-relationship works.

But if there's any question about who Justin should decide to come home to, Brian wants to make it perfectly clear. Rolling them over, he arches into Justin, pressing his hardening cock against Justin's own. Brian kisses him soundly, fiercely, brings his teeth to Justin's lips and nips and sucks them into a swell. It has Sunshine squirming beneath him.

Between a fury of tangled tongues and grinding hips, a soft sound comes over the baby monitor. At first just a sigh, but then a string of complete, yet clear, nonsense. Brian thinks he catches a _dada_before he groans, annoyed. Though maybe he really shouldn't be. She has been good all night.

"Don't stop," Justin grumbles, grabbing his ass to press their stiff dicks together again.

"Are you deaf?"

"What?"

"The baby?" Brian clarifies, moving next to Justin so that Justin can get up to take care of her.

Justin grins. "She talks in her sleep. Just like her mom."

"I thought you said you never fucked her mother."

"I haven't. But over the course of our five year friendship, we _have_spent the night at each other's apartments. Friends do that, you know. Not to mention that she's been my roommate ever since my ex moved out. You overhear things when you live with someone."

The look on Justin's face is enough to tell Brian that Sunshine's probably going to go on a tangent about all of _his_ sleeping habits, and Brian doesn't want to get into that again. It'll just end up in a fight about whether or not he snores. Which, for the record, he fucking _doesn't_.

So he strokes Justin's cock just the way he likes it, and Justin suddenly looks perfectly content to forget about where this little conversation was headed.

They get another quick fuck in and forty minutes worth of sleep before the urchin wakes them up with her fussing over the baby monitor. As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Brian unwraps himself from Justin as Justin starts to move around to take care of her.

Brian doesn't really want to get up, being perfectly content to stay in this lumpy bed listening to the sounds of Justin whispering to the kid in a sleep-drugged blur. But it's almost five in the morning, and Brian Kinney doesn't do sleepovers.

His body protests as he gets up, and Brian stumbles around trying to find his clothes that he could have sworn he'd carried upstairs. Apparently not. Shit. So he tries to find his way around the bedroom in the dark, bumping into a dresser in the process. That's going to fucking bruise. And with a muttered string of curses, Brian walks into the hallway and down the stairs.

.

By the time that Brian is buttoning up his shirt, Justin walks into the living room with the urchin on his hip. It's hard to tell in the low lighting, but judging from her flush cheeks, it looks like the kid has been crying a little. Maybe a nightmare or something.

His gaze shifts from the kid to Justin, and Brian doesn't really know how to place the expression on Justin's face. Sunshine's probably more disappointed than anything. Brian doesn't know why Justin would think he would stay; he never has—not in Pittsburgh, not even in New York. He may be able to tell Justin he loves him now, but that doesn't mean he's changed that much. The prospect of staying over at his lover's place is still unsettling, still too couple-y for his tastes. Even if that lover is Justin.

"I'll see you tonight at Ted and Blake's stag party?"

"Maybe. Elise is feeling a little warm, and I don't want to leave her if she's sick."

"Well, try to be there." Brian slips up to him, leans down to Justin's ear and drops his voice. "Because I'd really like fuck you again tonight."

"And here I thought that old age would slow you down. Silly me."

Brian thumbs Justin's cheekbone before leaning in for a kiss. "Not old. _Mature_."

"You're going to be fucking four times a day when you're ninety. The poster geezer for Viagra," Justin teases.

"Christ, I hope to be dead by fifty. And you can sure as hell bet that I'll put myself out of my misery by ninety if bad genes don't do it for me."

Justin shoves his shoulder, scowling. "Shut up. Don't say things like that."

"No," Elise mumbles against Justin's chest.

Justin dips his head, places a kiss on top of blonde hair. Brian just kind of looks at them for a moment, thinks about how totally fucked he could be if he isn't careful. Maybe, he thinks, he already is as he reaches out to smooth the kid's downy-soft hair. Brian doesn't want to get used to this—this being with Justin and the urchin all evening—and fears that he might be able to.

"Do you still have delusions of Hugo Boss tuxes and golden gardenias, Sunshine?" Brian asks snidely, eyes never leaving the kid.

Justin smirks. "You'd better hope I don't or you'll be fucked."

Brian would like to think that that's so fucking untrue, but at this point, he knows better.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The high pitched ringing of his cell wakes Brian from a very deep, very relaxing sleep. Whoever the fuck that is has a death wish, calling this early on a Saturday morning. And Brian—very groggy—considers not answering it. Except, he knows better; if it's Mikey or Debbie, they'll call all morning until he picks up. So he reaches for the cell, misses it once, twice, and then finally has it.

"What the fuck do you want?" he growls, not even bothering to see who it is first. "Do you _know_what time it is?"

"_Yeah, it's noon, asshole._"

Brian reaches for his pack of cigarettes and lighter and lights up. "I figured these early wake-up calls would end when I shipped you off to Dartmouth."

"_Please. As if you could get rid of me that easily._"

"True," Brian says, taking a drag. "You Taylors are like a nasty case of syphilis. So very hard to get rid of."

"_And who would know better than you._"

He can almost hear Molly's snarky smile in her voice. Brian's always been able to appreciate that about his youngest Taylor charge. She and Justin are different in a lot of ways, but they both love to give him shit. And honestly, they're probably the only two people that he'll really take it from.

"And what have I done to deserve this early morning pestering?"

"_Well first, I wanted to see if I could come back to Kinnetik while I'm on break, considering I was so indispensable to you during my summer internship._"

"Why the hell should I take you back?"

Truthfully, he'd take Molly back in a heartbeat. He'd had his misgivings about it when she approached him about interning at the end of her senior year. While Brian had always known she was very intelligent, intelligence alone doesn't necessarily make a good businessman. Businesswoman. Whatever. And he almost told her she couldn't, but being with Molly made him feel close to Justin again in ways he could have never imagined. So he took her on, and she turned out to be fucking fabulous.

"_Because I know the ins-and-outs of the business after working this summer. And, you trusted me with a few special projects, so that obviously means that you think I'm good at what I do. You'd be stupid to pass me up. We both know it._"

"I'll think about it. No promises." Another drag and then, "So what's the other reason you called?"

"_My brother sounded well-fucked this morning when I spoke with him,_" she says mischievously.

"And well-fucked he was."

"_No way! I thought maybe…but I wasn't sure, you know? Tell me something is going on with you two._"

"A gentlemen doesn't kiss and tell, Mollusk."

"_I'm not interested in the kissing! Come on, please say you're trying to get him back. He really loves you, Brian. A lot._"

Brian snorts. "How the hell would you know?"

"_Um, hello? Aside from the fact that we talk to each other once a week, I did spend the summer with him just after you two broke-up. He was still upset about it, months after the fact. Like, eating-a-gallon-of-ice-cream-with-your-best-girlfriend-over-a-chick-flick sort of upset. And do you really want to know how many times he called me while I was working with you at Kinnetik? Practically every day and—_"

"Alright, I get the point."

She sighs. "_Now that his stupid, hipster boyfriend is out of the picture, you can try to work things out._"

"Hipster boyfriend? Somehow I can't picture that," he says easily, with a laugh.

"_James was such a douche, and Justin never loved him._"

"Then why did he have a baby with him?"

"_He didn't._"

And suddenly, everything that Brian had assumed about Justin's life in New York goes right out the fucking window.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter:** 7  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 9,346  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, explicit sexual situations, discussion of past Justin/Other and Brian/Other  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> A big thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this chapter. I'm sorry that it took so long, but hopefully you'll find that the wait was worth it! Much love to L for betaing this and to C for talking me through it; they're both indispensable to my writing process.

* * *

><p>As a policy, Brian tries not to let things get under his skin. Not people. Not business. Not <em>anything<em>. Eighteen years under the tyranny of Jack taught him everything he needed to know about building walls and just fucking _dealing_ with something until there was a way out.

But when something does break through, it's salt-in-a-wound painful. Brian's tried every coping mechanism he could think of in the past few hours, but with little luck. Whatever it was that Molly unleashed on him this morning has wormed its way inside him, tearing through him with abandon. And it's amazing how, after thirty-nine years on this mother fucking planet, he still has no idea what will trigger this reaction—the deep, fatal ache that hurts worse in his head than in his chest.

He'd thought he'd _known_; that's the thing that kills him. Brian had assumed that all the little pieces of information about Justin that filtered into his life these past few years were it—success, gallery shows, boyfriend, baby. Unsurprisingly, the whole thing worked itself out in his head, all the pieces fit together to paint a picture of domestic happiness and artistic achievement. Life was good for Justin Taylor.

Except, that could all be one big fucking lie now, couldn't it?

Molly wouldn't say much after dropping that fucking bomb. Something about how she'd assumed he and Justin had talked, that Justin had told him about James and the urchin. Something about how it wasn't really her place.

To hell with her place.

Left without a single answer—with the drugs and alcohol not really working their magic in such a limited dosage—Brian resorts to sifting through his junk and archived emails for anything that Justin might have sent him about the urchin or the ex. It makes him feel like some pathetic twat, like someone other than Brian Kinney. He doesn't _do_ shit like this; it's stupid, sentimental—things better left to starry-eyed twinks and lezzies. Not him.

His eyes skim over the words all the same. He _needs_ to know, to understand. He needs to be able to reorient himself. The thought of Sunshine alone in New York—with a kid, for better or worse—has him strangely unsettled. Sure, he loves Justin. But people can love from four hundred miles away, without attachment or responsibility. It's the fucking sense of _responsibility_ that gets him, his perpetual need to look after someone who never really needed _him_ in the first place.

If he just knew that Justin's life wasn't something out of a goddamn Lifetime drama, he would be fine. Brian could wipe his hands clean of the whole twisted, confusing-as-fuck ordeal as soon as Justin left town. It would be simple. Honest. Efficient. Maximum pleasure, minimal bullshit. No boyfriend—no fucking _husband_—and no kid.

Except, Brian's not sure he's that person anymore. Part of him wants to be because things were so much simpler then. He knew who he was, where he stood, and what could be expected of him. The price for that, though, is losing Justin. Again.

Admittedly, he doesn't know what the hell to do. A few things remain perfectly clear—it really _is_ only time and he's finally succumbed to non-defined, non-conventional love. Probably did long ago, if he's being honest with himself. Probably on the night that Justin took a bat to the head.

But Brian doesn't know what the fuck to do with any of those things either. Go to New York? Not if he doesn't want to lose every ounce of pride he has. Stay in the Pitts and let Justin go? Wouldn't be the first time, and he does get along just fine. Does he really want to just settle for fine though?

He doesn't want to think about the future anymore. That's not what this is about anyway. This is about Justin and his past. And if Brian can make sense of any of it without actually _asking_—and looking like a caring human being in the process—maybe he can settle this back-and-forth over Justin once and for all.

In his _Sunshine_ folder, he's saved page after page of interior design plans for Britin sent during the honeymoon phase of their long-distance relationship. The house is still left unfinished and unfurnished in some parts; Brian could never bring himself to finish it off after the separation. Even when all of Justin's specifications had been taken care of and implemented, he hadn't deleted all this shit. Couldn't, maybe. There's too much of Justin in those emails, too much of their tiny, fucked-up life together being built word by word and picture by picture for Brian to have deleted it.

Other than those, there's not much. Stray messages that Brian had decided to keep for one reason or another. He'd never been one to hold onto Justin's random I-love-you emails, and it's possible that the few spare he had kept around were tossed in his post-break-up, thirteen-day-celibacy madness.

When he comes across one exchange with an attachment, Brian opens it like the glutton for punishment he is. At first he thinks it's the pictures of Justin's birthday weekend in 2006, but soon after it's obvious that it's just one photo of them in Central Park from that visit. And what's worse, the email is dated after the fucking break-up.

It'd be smart to stop now, but his eyes are already trailing over the words.

_Tomorrow it'll officially be two months since we've exchanged emails or called or texted. I can't imagine how or why you'd know this, but, as of today, this is the longest you and I have ever gone without speaking to each other. Well, I take that back. I guess there was one other time._

_With all the time we spent apart this past year, so caught up in our own bullshit, I thought I'd barely notice it at all. We'd go without talking for a week at a time, you know? But the truth, Brian, is that it hurts so fucking much and I want to call you so fucking badly that I could cry. I know. Drama princess, right? But considering that the only thing that's ever kept us from communicating for this long before was a coma, I guess you can't expect too much from me._

_What kills me is that I know neither one of us really wanted this. That if we hadn't broken things off over an IM session, there's no way we could have gone through with it._

That's the fucking truth. They'd talked about it long enough—breaking-up—but neither one of them had ever had the balls to actually _do_ it. _He_ could never call it quits while listening to Sunshine on the other end of the line; he's not that fucking strong. In the end, it seemed like the thing to do—the cold, emotionless way. Justin had mentioned their lack of communication, and Brian had quickly typed out the simple solution to it all. And in no time, Justin had agreed.

Simple enough.

But those goddamn consequences had been dire.

When Brian's eyes flick back towards the computer screen—as they take in words about how sorry Justin had been, how he wished that he could just relocate his life back to the Pitts even though it's impossible—Brian can't force himself to keep reading, let alone study the picture that had caught his attention in the first place. He quickly exits out of the email and doesn't bother searching for any more. If there's one thing he knows for sure, he can't fucking handle reliving those months, even at the cost of never knowing what happened with Justin.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

It's pure cosmic irony that he's forced to walk past _that_ streetlight every time he goes to Babylon. Sometimes Brian thinks that not a night goes by that he doesn't acknowledge it, regard it as some sort of old friend that he'd much rather forget about because they've moved on.

The days when he and Sunshine would walk down Liberty Avenue together are long gone. That's how it is, no matter what does or doesn't happen between them. Justin's life is in New York. And Brian, as much as he's loathe to admit it, isn't sure his life can be anywhere but the Pitts. It's a love-hate relationship he's been battling for years, and he's under the impression that Pittsburgh is going to win this one. If his own child couldn't draw him away, Justin doesn't stand a chance.

Their time together on these streets wasn't always great, Brian thinks. He's just remembering it wrong because things were a different sort of simple back then. Easy because of the lack of distance physically and actual distance emotionally, but so fucking hard in a million other ways. And he needs to remember the hard times, or he's afraid of what might happen.

To some extent, Brian knows what's likely to happen. The way his heart beats quicker in his chest, the way his nerves come alive like he needs some sort of nicotine fix as he heads into Babylon is evidence enough. He's been waiting all day to see Sunshine, and the moment he's under flashing, colored lights he seeks Justin out.

Brian's almost ashamed of his eagerness.

_Almost_.

What he _is_ ashamed of is the immediate disappointment he feels after failing to spot Justin near the bar or on the dance floor, grinding against some fuckable top. Eagerness can easily be explained away as a need to get laid by the only man worth laying in this miserable burgh. Disappointment, though, implies attachment, and Brian doesn't want that. He tells himself it'll only make it harder later, that it might feel in-fucking-credible now but that he has to remember how he'd been gutted almost three years ago. So with an easy step that belies his want, he climbs the stairs towards the VIP lounge where Theodore and Blake's bachelor party is being held.

Brian makes a detour to his office, dropping off his coat and checking his answering machine. On his desk, there's a note from Javier—his general manager for the club—with a date and time for the installation of the new sound system and another concerning some bullshit with one of the go-go boys for Friday night. He doesn't have the patience to deal with that right now, so Brian drops the slip of paper for another time and heads for the lounge.

It's one of his favorite places now, more so than the bar or backroom. He'd rebuilt it better than ever, designed it with fucking in mind. The lighting's toned down and the music quieter; it makes for an environment that's more conducive to longer fucks, with its plush furniture and grated partitionings. The room attracts the wealthy: men who are willing to shell out hundreds of dollars a night for the privacy or privilege; Brian's never figured out which. And it definitely gives Babylon something that no other club on Liberty Avenue has—high-class sex appeal.

The room's packed with guests when he swipes his card and slips inside. Emmett took care of the guest list, apparently adding a couple million more people than what Theodore and Blake originally had on their short list. Not that it makes much difference to Brian—all the more men to fuck. But before that, he's going to find Justin.

"Hey, Kinney!"

Brian stops in front of the bar, turns to find Marcus—one of his art department heads. The other, Trevor, is next to him, preoccupied with ordering a drink. Marcus shakes his hand, grinning in a way that Brian's always found appealing, even if Marcus is straight in an I-don't-fuck-guys-even-if-they-are-Brian-Kinney way. While the man has no small talent in graphic design, Brian figures it was really that mouth that sealed the deal on Marcus' employment.

"I didn't think I'd see you at this fine, homosexual dancing establishment, Mark. The wife's going to start wondering."

"She already does," he laughs. "I got interrogated after that business trip we took to Boston together. Lucky for me she finds your charm irresistible, or else I might have you to blame for a ruined marriage."

"That might not be such a bad thing. You wouldn't be so keen to get out of work on time, and I could actually get my money's worth out of you. Overpaid jackass."

He feels a sudden tickling at his ear and a whispered, "Feel free to get rid of us overpaid jackasses at any time, Bri, and watch your empire crumble."

Brian smirks, turns his head to press a firm kiss to Trevor's mouth. Every time Brian kisses him at Babylon, he always tastes like gin and cigarettes—a far cry from the clean, minty tang during work hours. He likes Trevor in a way that he doesn't like most tricks. It's probably why Brian's had his ass more than once in the past three years that he's worked at Kinnetik.

"However did I become CEO of a multi-million dollar agency without you two?" he tosses back.

"Touché," Trevor says, putting a glass of Jim in Brian's hand and raising his glass in a toast.

Slipping an arm around Trevor's waist, Brian drinks to it. He half-listens to some story Marcus tells about the new intern—Landon? Lucas? Logan? Fuck if Brian knows—and one of the accountants working with Ted while scanning the room for Justin. He doesn't have much luck in anything but drawing Trevor and Marcus' attention to him.

"What gives?" Marcus asks.

"You're looking for someone," Trevor says.

Brian shrugs. "A friend's in town."

Realization suddenly dawns on Marcus' face. "The blond you were with the other day after the Blackwell meeting?"

"Justin's back?"

He really doesn't want to answer Trevor's question. The guy knows about Justin—fuck, everyone_knows_ about Justin, the twink that almost tamed The Great God Kinney. Sunshine is the stuff legends are made of in this town of gossipy queens and hopelessly romantic twinks. Brian tried to keep the details of his non-relationship with Justin a secret when he was fucking Trevor regularly, but things like that don't stay buried.

He had always sensed that Trevor knew what their fucking was about—that Trevor was just his type and nothing more: fair-haired, considerably younger than himself, and artistic—and accepted that things between them began and ended with their cocks. There was no jealousy there, which is probably why Brian likes him as much as he does. Still, he figures it has to hurt on some level.

"Yeah, and I better go find him before he takes some bad E. He can still be such a kid sometimes."

Before he can take much more than a few steps, Trevor's fingers slip around his wrist, stopping him. Brian turns back, a little annoyed.

"What?"

"If you can't find Justin, come get me. We'll dance."

And by "dance" Brian is pretty sure he means "fuck". He grunts his response and feels Trevor's grip loosen. It could be fun, maybe. Trevor's a good time, but he's not really in the mood for that tonight. The only thing he's really in the mood for is Justin.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Ten minutes later, he's meticulously surveyed the room for Justin without any luck. Brian's immediately annoyed, wondering where the fuck he's gone off to. Probably the back room. If there's anything Brian can attest to, it's that Justin's been a sex fiend the past week, taking it whenever and wherever he can get it. It works well for Brian. Well, it _had_ until his piece of blond boy ass ran off with some sub-par fag.

Brian tells himself he'll give Justin another five minutes to show before he—very fucking subtly, thank you very much—starts looking for him. But by the time he's at the two minute mark, he's already caving in like a love-sick twat.

Before he can sink too far into the depths of embarrassment, Michael catches him and pulls him into a quick hug. Brian kisses his temple, relieved to have a distraction. Good ole Mikey—always there when he can count on him.

"When'd you get here?" Michael asks, taking a step back to stand by the other Mr. Novotny-Bruckner.

Brian shrugs, takes a sip of his drink. "Fifteen minutes ago tops."

"Fashionably late as always."

"You know me, Mikey. It's not a party until I show up."

"We weren't sure you'd be here," Ben adds.

"And why's that, Professor? Even I can bare a sickening, breeder-established ritual if there's enough ass involved."

"No, nothing like that. Michael thought you might head over to Justin's since he couldn't make it."

Brow furrowing, Brian considers asking Zen Ben to repeat that remark. Justin not here? What the fuck? But judging from the way Mikey looks at him with his puppy-dog eyes, he must have heard right. Shit! He didn't fucking prepare himself for tonight—how he was going to act, what he was and wasn't going to say to Justin—for nothing.

"And where is our resident artiste?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"He called the house around seven, said your phone was going straight to voicemail or something," Michael explains. "The baby has a little bit of a temperature, I guess. He didn't want to leave her with a sitter."

"Yeah, it might tarnish his chances of winning the Father-of-the-Year award, and we couldn't have that," Brian mutters, slamming the rest of his Beam back.

Ben gives him one of those sympathetic looks meant to appease. "I'm sure he would have been here if he could have, Brian."

"Are you alright?" Mikey asks, squeezing Brian's arm affectionately.

Fuck if he really knows. Brian isn't sure what he is at the moment, aside from the dreaded_disappointed_. And he doesn't think it's about the missed opportunity for sex. Hell, he knows it's not. It's Justin. That much is obvious to him and probably to everyone on Liberty Avenue by now. It sure as hell is obvious to Mikey, which Brian hates.

"He's just a fuck, Mikey. Easily replaceable."

Michael looks all disappointed in him, his expression too much like Deb's patented _you lying little shit_ one. What's Michael honestly expecting though? Brian already knows he's fucked, that Mikey was right and that getting involved with Justin again had probably been the biggest mistake he'd ever made. He's not sorry for it, doesn't regret it. At least, not yet.

"Brian, are you sure—"

"Am I sure of what, Professor? I think I'd know more about my sex life than you."

"I think what Ben was trying to say is that…you just…you looked surprised," Michael explains, carefully emphasizing _surprised_ as if Brian would start swinging if he treated the word with anything less than delicacy. "Sort of in a Captain Astro issue one-twenty-eight kind of way when he finds out that Doctor Nova has—"

"I wasn't surprised," Brian clarifies, icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, boys, I haven't had my dick sucked yet, and I've been here for all of twenty minutes. A true tragedy that must be remedied."

He slaps Michael a little too hard on the back for it to be strictly playful and slips away into the increasingly crowded room. Brian's not sure where he's going exactly, but it'll be comfortably enough away from The Aunties and very, very close to a bottle of Beam.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Brian wanders around the club aimlessly, torn between wanting to contact Justin and saying _fuck it_to just about everything. What's going on in Justin's life shouldn't matter. For nearly three years, Brian's managed just fine being cut off from him. He doesn't _need_ Sunshine, yet Brian isn't sure that means he doesn't _want_ him.

Leaning against the bar in the main club, he pulls out his phone and stares at the blank screen for what feels like forever. The colorful splashes of light pulse on his hand, the steady _thumpa-thumpa_driving into him until he can hardly think straight.

He'll regret this; Brian knows that. Still, he touches the screen, brings up his messaging, and taps Justin's name. Things stay brief—the way Brian likes it—with a stony:

_Everything okay?_

Putting his phone down, Brian motions for the bartender—Kent, he thinks—to bring him another Beam. If he keeps it up, there's no way in hell he'll be able to drive home on his own. Even a constitution inherited from generations of abusive, alcoholic Irishmen has its limits. Once, Brian probably wouldn't have cared about driving the five minutes it takes to get home while drunk out of his mind. But now he has a son to think of, one that's sensitive and affectionate and who loves him more than Brian can fathom. He never wants to hurt Gus, and Brian's well aware that dying would do just that.

Because he doesn't want to have to deal with Mikey & Company tonight, he slows down, decides to nurse this last drink. His phone lights up as he takes a sip. Hazel eyes drop to read Justin's message.

_**E is running a slight fever. I'm not sure what's wrong.**_  
><em><strong>I miss you.<strong>_

There was a time when Brian would have rolled his eyes at the second message. Now, he reads it over and over again, lips thinned in thought and eyes shutting. He hates this. Fucking hates it. It's as if the whole goddamn universe is making an honest attempt at cockblocking him and Justin.

A few days ago, he'd have blamed it on the kid. Tonight it's practically the furthest thing from his mind. She's not so bad, maybe. A pain in the ass, hell yes. And an annoying little shit. But, Brian realizes miserably, annoying in a way that Justin had been when they'd first met. Except, she has no redeeming qualities. At least Justin had a talented mouth and sweet ass to make Brian's momentary acts of insanity explainable.

Brian bites his thumbnail. He doesn't have a fucking clue why he's bothering, but he types something up anyway.

_Yeah._

Justin will understand. Hell, Sunshine will get it better than he does, no fucking doubt in his mind. He always has, and Brian's learned to stop fighting it.

"I figured you'd be halfway through the guest list by now, sweetie."

Brian glances up from his phone to Emmett standing next to him in some god-awful outfit and make-up. He has any number of smart remarks for Miss Emmy Lou but doesn't have the usual bloodlust to carry it out tonight. There's too much going on his life right now to take pathetic potshots at his friends.

"I'm not your sweetie."

"No, and it's a good thing you aren't because you would have never made it out of the house in those pants. This is a bachelor party, honey, not a business meeting. I expect more from you."

Brian's expression is one of half-confusion and half-offense. "These pants are fucking hot."

"Not as hot as a pair of 501s." Emmett leans down towards him, elbows against the bartop. "Some might say that your heart isn't in the game anymore, if your questionable taste in trousers is any indication."

"Would you stop analyzing my wardrobe choices? It's annoying as hell. And, for the record, I don't take advice from queens wearing scarlet lycra."

"Buy me a Cosmo, and I won't say another word."

"Buy your own Cosmo. From the way Theodore talks, you can afford it."

"Of course I can buy my own drinks, but they taste so much better when someone else buys them for me," Emmett explains, batting his eyes.

"Pathetic," Brian grumbles, but gets the attention of the bartender anyway.

He's granted all of two minutes reprieve from Emmett's incessant chattiness before Emmett—poking around his drink with the tiny straw—not so subtly glances at him over and over again. The look on Emmett's face tells Brian just how much he wants to say something. And like Emmett's some wild animal, Brian avoids all eye contact until that's not even enough to stop him.

"I'm really sorry Justin couldn't make it."

"Why is it that every one of my so-called friends seems to think that I give a fuck if Justin shows or not?"

Emmett cocks his hip, eyebrows raised. "You know, I will never understand why you do this."

"Do what?"

"Do you know how many people would kill to have a love like yours? It's the stuff fairytales are made of, honey. Albeit...very sexually charged ones. And yet here you are, pretending to not care about Justin. Well you know what? You wouldn't be sitting at the bar, staring at your phone, if you didn't give a shit. You'd be fucking your way through Babylon. So don't try to fool us because the only person you're convincing is yourself."

Brian looks at Emmett blankly, trying to keep his cool even though he knows he's busted. And by fucking Emmy Lou, no less. In the past few years, Brian's never believed that his friends actually bought his bullshit, but for some reason—maybe simple force of habit—Brian keeps up appearances. Things are less complicated that way.

"Would you just go for it?" Emmett adds, indignation giving way to frustration.

Brian snorts. "We're already fucking."

"Yeah, I could tell. Justin hasn't drawn you this much since he was in high school."

"When the hell have you seen Justin drawing?"

While he doesn't mean to sound pissed, Brian certainly _feels_ it. Justin's not drawn around him at any point during their little visit. Of course, they spend most of their time fucking, which might explain it. And when they do have some down time, Brian realizes that it's more stilted conversation than anything else.

It shouldn't bother him that he doesn't know this about Justin. In fact, he has no fucking clue why he'd assumed Justin _wouldn't_ be drawing. He's an artist, and that's what artists do. But painting him? Brian figured that somewhere along the line, Justin grew out of that, especially considering their separation. He doesn't know what the hell this renewed interest means or why Sunshine might keep it secret, though.

"Emmett, when did you see Justin?" Brian asks again because it's obvious to him that Emmett's avoiding his question.

"We stopped over for lunch, alright? You've been hoarding him since he's been in town."

Brian raises an eyebrow. "We?"

"I didn't say that," Emmett mutters, sipping his Cosmo.

"Who are you whoring around with this week, Emmy Lou?"

"I'm not 'whoring around', thank you very much."

Brian half-expects Emmett to dish after a few seconds like he always does, so when he keeps his trap shut, the 'who' in question becomes immediately clear. Brian rolls his eyes as Emmett stares at his drink.

"Again?"

"So what if we are? It's not a crime."

Brian shakes his head. "You two are on-again-off-again more than me and Justin."

"I wouldn't go that far, honey."

"So how is Drew? Why haven't you brought him around? I'm absolutely _crushed_ that I'm just finding out about this now."

Emmett glares. "Do you always have to be such a cunt, Brian? For your information, we wanted a little alone time before we let everyone know. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how no one in the family knows how to mind their own business."

"Just 'a little alone time' with Justin?"

"Drew hasn't seen the baby yet."

"Ah, the baby," Brian says, steely.

"Why do you always say it like that?"

"Like what?" Brian shouts, fed-up and dreading where this conversation is going.

"Like she's the dirt on the bottom of your particularly stunning Prada shoes! Do you understand how important she is to him? She's not some piece of art that you can piss on, Brian, because you're having a bad day or you don't like how focused Justin is on his work. Elise is his _daughter_. How would you feel if Justin treated Gus like that?"

Brian pales, maybe _hears_ Emmett for the first time all fucking night. His stomach churns, as if the Beam is going to come back up at any second. Yeah, so he's a shitty excuse for a human being. That's not particularly new information. He's not always proud of it. But having it put to him like this—bold and dramatic, an Emmy Lou signature—somehow makes Brian see things a little differently.

He'd done that before—literally pissed on Justin's work. And it wasn't exactly a particularly glamorous moment in the life of Brian Kinney.

"Justin would never treat Gus like that," Brian says quietly.

Sunshine wouldn't. The idea of it is laughable. Sometimes Brian thinks that Justin, at times, cared about his son more than he ever did, especially when Gus was a newborn. Brian's not proud of that, either. He's tried to make up for it, sure, but like Lindsay said, he can't make up for lost time no matter how hard he tries.

"You want to know what I think?" Emmett asks, putting a hand on Brian's shoulder. "You're afraid to love her. You pulled the same asshole card when Justin first started coming around, and look where that got you. With her and Justin in the picture again, your life would be over as you know it. You'd have to learn how to let yourself be loved. Honestly, I don't think your man enough to take the risk. And Justin doesn't either."

The pressure from Emmett's hand leaves his shoulder, but Brian's too lost in himself to really realize that Emmett's walked off. Why the fuck should he care about what some flaming queen thinks? He shouldn't, and he doesn't. Fuck Emmett.

That's not the problem though. Brian pushes his shot of Beam away, half-finished. Sighing, he drops the façade for a moment, feels the weight lift from his shoulders. Before Brian knows it, it's back again, and he pounds the rest of his shot as he scans the room for anyone worth fucking.

No, the problem isn't with Emmett at all.

His problem lies in whether or not Justin actually believes that he's not man enough to be the man that Justin would like him to be.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

It's one cold day in hell when Brian's bored in the backroom of his own club. The guy that's sucking him—some average twink with dark hair—has zero fucking talent, to the point that Brian's wondering if he's ever _had_ a dick in his mouth before. He's frustrated, restless. He doesn't want this at all and wonders why the hell he's even in the backroom in the first place.

_Self medicating_, he thinks. But, it's not working because he can't keep his mind from drifting to Sunshine and everything that Emmett had said earlier. Does Justin really think that about him? And if he does, why the fuck is Justin still hanging around?

Brian slips his fingers through the trick's hair mindlessly, his gut wrenching. Christ, he's such a pathetic fucker; he can't even enjoy a blowjob anymore. Not when he's a twenty minute drive from Justin. The perks of fucking the same person over a long period of time have evaded him from time to time, but they're perfectly clear to him now. Justin knows him—how to touch him, how to suck him, and exactly what he likes.

Briefly, Brian considered leaving Justin the hell alone for awhile, let this whole thing between them start to smolder out. Anymore that's not an option. Being in the backroom has him wanting Sunshine all over again. No, not wanting. Fucking _craving_.

Dipping his hand into his pants' pocket, he grabs his phone and dials Justin, instructing the twink in front of him to keep sucking because he "could use the practice". Brian sometimes wonders why these losers stick around; then he realizes what a privilege it is to suck his cock. It is a thing of legend around these parts.

"_Brian?_"

At the sound of Justin's voice, his cock gets harder. Classical conditioning, Brian thinks, from all their years of phone sex. Hell, all their years in general. He used to get hard from hearing Justin when Justin was still his little stalker.

He huffs into the phone. "Some greeting. Not happy to hear from me, Sunshine?"

"_I thought you would be at the party._"

"I am."

Feeling the competition no doubt, the trick starts to show a little more enthusiasm. By some grace of God, he actually does something halfway decent with his tongue, and Brian's breath hitches as his hand winds tighter into the trick's hair.

"_What was that?_"

"Nothing," he says, punctuating it with a grunt.

"_Brian? Are you getting sucked off right now?_"

Brian has no idea why Sunshine sounds so fucking surprised; it's not like they haven't talked while they were with other people before. It makes this goddamn blowjob from hell so much more bearable in some ways. Justin's always been able to get him there. But, it's even more pathetic when Brian considers just how badly he'd rather it be Justin on his knees.

"What are you wearing?"

"_The pajamas from last night,_" Justin says, and Brian can almost hear his breaths turn shallow.

"The grey ones?"

"_Yeah,_"

Unable to help it, he moans a little into the phone. Justin had looked in-fucking-credible in them last night. The trick must think that Brian was moaning for him—maybe in his fucking dreams—because he's sucking in earnest now. With teeth. Brian swats him away, fed-up with him and hitches up his pants.

"What are you doing?"

"_I just got Eli down. I thought about watching some TV._"

"How would you like to have my dick up your ass instead?"

"_Still the romantic._" Justin pauses thoughtfully and, voice suddenly lower and breathier, says, "_I want you._"

At the change in tone, Brian has to forcibly stop himself from asking Justin to keep talking while he beats off. Christ, Justin knows what that tone does to him. Maybe that's the whole point. But he's not going to jerk it in the backroom of Babylon. Not when he can have Justin in the flesh.

"I'll be there in fifteen."

"_Twenty. Don't speed. The roads might be slick._"

"Why is it that I can't tell you 'fuck off' when my dick's hard?"

"_The world may never know, but it's to my advantage._"

Brian bites his lip. "Be waiting for me. Naked. In bed."

"_I'll leave the door unlocked._"

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Sunshine tastes like mint toothpaste and Chapstick. Their mouths crush against each other, Brian's lips getting coated with the slippery, unflavored balm. Brian forgot about that—how Justin's lips always chap in the winter. In fact, he used to hate the season for that reason (among others, including assholes who don't know how to drive in the goddamn snow). But before this past week, he never realized how much he missed it.

How much he missed everything, really.

Justin's palm stings as it smacks hard against his thigh. Brian grunts, bites down a little too hard on Justin's lip on purpose. Sunshine's strangled little yelp makes him smile, but Justin's fingers digging into the now-red flesh makes the smile fade quickly enough. Brian's not sure if Justin wants to fight him or fuck him tonight, but it's settling somewhere in the middle of the two. Christ, he's not had Justin this desperate for him in years.

"Fuck me," Justin growls into his ear.

Condom on, Brian aligns himself with Justin and pushes in easily. He studies Sunshine's face, watching as anxiousness fades into something like relief. Blue eyes flutter shut as Justin's lips part to suck in a sharp breath. Brian's thumb strokes Justin's temple—the bad one, the one where a four inch scar lies buried beneath blond hair—and leans into kiss him slowly, deeply. Buried inside Justin, the urgency thrumming through every touch, lick, taste from before settles into a quiet calm.

When Justin opens his eyes, Brian feels as if he's being burned. They're so unbelievably fucked, and not in a positive life-affirming way. No, in a way that's realer and bitter and will leave them both ravished and desolate.

"I love you, Brian."

Brian shushes him, places a light kiss on his forehead before pulling back to drive into Justin again. Sunshine squirms under him, warm and sweaty. He locks his feet behind Brian's back and pushes back into Brian to meet him thrust for thrust.

They set a slow, steady pace. Brian's not sure how it all happened. He didn't come here for this. He came for a fuck—with Justin, of course, which _does_ make it different from anything he would have had at Babylon—but this isn't a fuck. The term _making love_—a personal favorite of _his_ favorite little blond twink—makes him want to puke, but that's probably the closest word that describes it.

As soon as that stupid phrase gets into his head, Brian has to speed things up so that what they're doing is a little more like fucking. He drives into Justin unsteadily, his orgasm building and throwing off his pacing. It doesn't help that Justin's decided to set his own pace, apparently, in a way that feels incredible and infuriating all at the same time. He smacks what he can of Justin's ass, all but telling him to behave and stop being such a bossy bottom.

"Brian." Justin moans, fingers winding tightly into Brian's hair. "Brian…fuck."

"Shh, don't cum yet."

"Don't tell me…what…to do." A gasp. "Oh god, Brian."

Brian feels Justin clamping down on him and tries to hold out to no avail. He cums hard as Justin slumps into an exhausted heap, their legs tangled. As he fights to catch his breath, Brian eases onto Justin and then rolls them both onto their sides.

"That was nice," Justin says, trailing his fingers up Brian's chest.

"Not bad."

"Better than anything you would've got at Babylon."

Brian hums. "Maybe."

"Asshole." Justin shoves him a little.

Brian laughs, stretching over the side of the bed to grab a towel from his open gym bag to clean them off. Last time they'd had to hunt around the room for a condom—Brian's collection being out in the Jeep and Justin, apparently, coming to the Pitts with the impression that he wasn't going to get fucked much. So Brian, in a mad dash to get upstairs to Justin, just grabbed the well stocked bag in case of a repeat performance.

He lets Justin clean up first while he ties off the condom and dumps it in the trash. Justin tosses the towel at his head—reeking of sweat and cum—and Brian wipes himself down before chucking it somewhere in the room.

When Justin sidles up next to him, Brian drapes his arm over Justin's hip, pulling him a bit closer. He's tired, and sleeping with his own personal heater might be worth his while. He forgot how Sunshine throws heat at night, which was always a plus when the weather was cold. Brian thinks he's been forgetting a lot of the little things that made him love (or loathe) Justin way back when.

"I don't suppose you'd let me smoke in here?" Brian grumbles, half-asleep but still itching for an after-sex nicotine fix.

"Keep dreaming."

He huffs his annoyance, but doesn't say another word about it. He's cut back anyway, at his son's insistence that smoking makes people very sick and he doesn't want his dad to be sick.

"Are you staying?" Justin asks, something akin to hope in his tone.

"For a little while."

"But you're falling asleep."

"Your point?"

Justin runs his thumb across Brian's lips, sticky with the rub-off of his Chapstick. "You don't do sleepovers."

"Maybe I'm feeling a little kinky tonight."

Justin smiles wide, ridiculously pleased, and Brian doesn't get how something so simple can make him smile like that. Yeah, he doesn't really do sleepovers. He's sure as hell never done one with Justin. But, the prospect of getting up right now seems far too daunting, as does the fact that, if he leaves now, he won't have a willing ass in his bed when he wakes up. So Brian settles in for the night, covering them both up with a blanket.

"Besides if I leave by sun up, it doesn't count as a sleep over," he mumbles into Justin's hair.

Justin grins against his shoulder before kissing it lightly. "Okay."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

A few hours later, Brian wakes up to the sound of the kid screaming her head off. Not crying,_screaming_. He glances over to find Justin gone from bed and shuts his eyes. Let Sunshine deal with his drama princess; it's too early in the morning for this particular brand of bullshit.

As the wailing continues, Brian starts to think that maybe some crazed ax murderer broke into the house, that Justin's dead downstairs and the kid witnessed it all like that one show Mikey watches on Showtime. Unsettled—Joanie always had said that he'd had an overactive imagination—Brian throws on the sweats from his gym bag and creeps downstairs.

There's no ax murderer, Brian finds out, but what he does discover is fucking worse than a blood bath. Justin's waiting on the phone, face red and eyes wet, with the urchin shrieking in his arms. Brian has no idea what the fuck's going on and asks Justin as much with a lift of his brow.

Moving his phone away from his mouth, Justin says, "I'm on hold with her pediatrician. She's been like this for half an hour and she's running a high fever."

"Shit."

"I can't get her to calm down, Brian. And I know the pediatrician is going to send me to the hospital for the fever."

Hospital? _Fuck_. Brian knows from too much fucking experience that Justin doesn't do hospitals well at all. They freak him the hell out, and before it's all over, he usually ends up with a panic attack. And Brian's not much better. He spent enough time in and out of the hospital as a kid—no thanks to Jack—to have gotten used to it, but that summer after the bashing changed everything. Now he can't step foot in one without thinking of Justin in a coma with staples holding his head together.

"Can I do anything?"

Justin hesitates. "It's fine."

"Justin, for fuck's sake, don't give me the run around."

"Would you take her for a minute?"

Without question, Brian holds out his hands for Justin to pass the kid to him. He holds her against his bare chest, and that's when he realizes that she's burning up, her skin flushed and sweaty. Her high pitched screaming right near his ear grates on his nerves, so Brian can only imagine what Justin must have been feeling for the past half hour.

"Hey, quiet down, kid. We got the message loud and clear," he says softly, bouncing her a little in hopes that it will calm her down like it used to calm Gus.

Justin smoothes down her hair while they wait, seemingly desperate for contact with her. She rubs her face in the crook of Brian's neck, sound now muffled. Brian's not sure what's taking this goddamn pediatrician so fucking long to get back on the mother fucking phone, but if she doesn't soon, he's going to personally drive to New York and strangle her to death.

"Do you want me to grab her bag from her room?" Brian asks.

"You don't have to—"

"It's a simple yes or no, Sunshine. I don't need an Oscar-worthy speech."

Brian hates being short with Justin, but when Justin gets like this, he doesn't think straight and Brian's lucky if he can get through to him at all. Of course he doesn't have to do a damn thing, but he's _here_. And there's no way in hell that he's going to walk out the door and let Justin deal with this all on his own, in part because Brian's not entirely sure that Justin could drive from here to UPMC's Children's Hospital without wrecking.

"I'll get the bag," Brian says, making the decision for Justin. "You find out what we need to do."

"Brian, really, I appreciate it, but you don't have to do this."

"You're right. I don't. But I want to."

He leaves it at that, turning with the kid to go back upstairs for her things and a t-shirt that he hopes to God he has in his gym bag.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Brian watches Justin carefully from the small chair next to the hospital bed where Justin's sitting with the urchin. The longer they hang around here, waiting for that goddamn doctor to come back with a fucking diagnosis, the quieter Justin gets. His breathing's all off, deep and irregular, and the only sign of life from him is when the kid starts to fuss.

If he hadn't come, Brian has no idea how much worse—or better, maybe—Justin would have been. When the nurses tried to fight him about coming back here with Justin and the kid, Justin about lost it on everyone. Brian's never been more thankful for his man-whoring ways since without them he wouldn't have had a few friends in high places—one of them a VIP lounge regular. Greg was able to intervene for him, get him back here—where he should have fucking been in the first place—but it's not done too much good.

"Hey," Brian says quietly, breaking what must have been a twenty minute silence. "Take a couple of deep breaths, okay?"

Justin fixes him with a glare. "Are you going to tell me to push, too?"

Jamming his tongue into his cheek, he mutters, "You know, you wouldn't make a very inspiring pregnant woman."

He drops it, not wanting to get into an argument when they have a sick kid on their hands. No, not_they_. _Him_. Justin. Ah, fuck it. Brian's not sure what the hell to think anymore, though he guesses the fact that he's here and has stuck around for four fucking hours probably means something.

"I'm sorry, Brian. You obviously love us a lot if you're willing to be seen in public in a pair of sweats, and here I am being a total shit."

Smirking, Brian huffs a laugh. He'd forgotten about the sweats in the rush over here only to find himself face-to-face with someone like Greg; not exactly how he wants to be seen—slumming around in a pair of sweat pants outside of the gym.

And as for that little remark about loving them, Brian does. Well, he loves Justin. There's no fucking question about that. And the urchin? He glances to her puffy face and sleepy eyes—thank god for drugs—and feels bad for her. He may be cold, but he's not heartless. No kid should have to go through what she's been dealing with for the past few hours. Brian wonders if she caught something during their walk a couple nights ago, remembers that the only reason they were on that walk in the first place is because he and Justin needed their dicks taken care of. If she got sick because of _him_, Brian won't be able to shake the guilt.

"Do you want to talk? It always helped before."

Justin shrugs. "I don't think it was so much the talking as it was you being around."

"Well I'm here now, and it looks like we've got nothing but time."

"You're hot when you're being protective, you know that? Like when the nurse was trying to take her temperature? I thought you were going to punch the guy for making her scream."

"Fucker deserved it. He's apparently never heard of bedside manner in his life."

He bites his lip. "I miss it, Brian."

If he could, Brian would say that he misses it too. He used to be able to say it all the time when they were not-together. Now he can manage a pathetic I-love-you, but not the other. Why is it that it can only ever be one? Because if he says it now—I miss you, Justin—things would be _implied_. Things like _Breaking up was a mistake_, which it might have been, and _I wanted you back_, which he does in a lot of ways. So instead of having this discussion in the middle of an ER with a sick baby, Brian decides to change the subject altogether.

"Have you called her mother?"

"Not yet," Justin says, and Brian notices the disappointment in his tone, probably because of what Brian _didn't_ say.

"Don't you think you should?"

"I will in awhile. It's still early, and I don't want to wake her up."

"Sunshine—"

"We don't have the same relationship that you and Lindsay have with Gus. Delaney has her own hang-ups. She was kind enough to do this for me, and I'm not going to force anything on her that we didn't agree on."

"She wouldn't want to know if her fucking kid was in the hospital?"

He can't imagine a time when he wouldn't have dropped anything to be with Gus if he were sick. Hell, he can't imagine not being there for Jenny either. Whoever Justin picked as his incubator must be a real piece of work if she makes _him_ look like a stunning example of parenthood.

"Brian, she loves Eli, but in her own way."

The tone in Justin's voice tells him to just drop it. Brian doesn't _want_ to. If she's the only goddamn support he has in New York, then Brian doesn't know what the hell he's going to do. Justin's an adult now, he reminds himself. Just, not an adult without some major baggage. Justin ought to have someone there for him if he needs some help.

And that someone brings him back to the whole conversation he had with Molly yesterday, about Justin's ex and once presumed father of his child. Brian sees his opening here, wonders if it'd be too risky. Justin already knows that he cares, though; he wouldn't be here otherwise. The way Brian sees it, he has no ground to lose on this one.

"What about your ex?"

"What about him?" Justin asks, confused.

"Don't you think he'd want to know his kid is sick? Or does _he_ have hang-ups too?"

Of course Brian knows that the guy had nothing to do with Justin's decision to have the kid. However, Justin doesn't know that, and if Brian can weasel information out of him by playing dumb, he's not morally against it.

"It's just us," Justin says. "Me and her."

"So he doesn't give a shit. You really know how to pick the parents of your kid, Sunshine."

"Brian, look." Justin hesitates, conflicted expression on his face. "When I decided to have Elise, I decided to have her on my own. I wasn't…_with_ anybody, alright? And don't you fucking judge me for it or think I'm some irresponsible asshole. I had a plan, and I had the financial stability to give us a good life."

"So what happened then?"

Justin grows suddenly exasperated. "I met her! I fell in love with her from the moment I laid eyes on her. And I knew I couldn't dump her with a nanny for a few hours a day like I'd planned while I went to the studio. When James left, I lost that support as well. We'd moved into a nice place, which was manageable with two incomes. It got harder to pay for on my own." He shrugs. "We're doing fine. I'm giving her the life she deserves. It just requires a little juggling."

He doesn't know what to think. Brian wanted his answer, but he hadn't really expected that. No one wants to be a single parent. Fuck, he couldn't imagine raising Gus on his own and he's about as low maintenance as a kid comes. And the thing that boggles his mind is that Justin could _easily_find someone to be with, to make a life with, to give him all the things he's ever wanted. All the things Brian had refused to give him at one time or another.

Whoever the fuck this James guy was, he was obviously brain dead to give up on Justin. What the fuck was his problem? Well, maybe it was the same as _his_ current problem.

"Why'd he leave? Couldn't take the kid?"

"No, he couldn't take _me_."

"You?" Brian asks, brow raised.

"Yeah, me. I was alright for a few months, and he was cool about the whole expectant father thing. Then, after she was born, he didn't like the person that I was. Except I was the same, and I guess he just couldn't see this part of me that he didn't like." Justin gets quiet all of a sudden. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"But you're doing okay? Justin, don't fucking lie to me about this."

"I'm fine. I don't need you to save me."

Hearing that shouldn't hurt as much as it does. He always knew Justin would learn how to stand on his own two feet someday, but Brian hadn't expected it to gut him. It rings in his ears like, _I don't need you_, no matter how much he tries to tell himself that's not the case. Justin didn't say that.

Part of Brian wonders if maybe Justin _does_ need him. Otherwise, why bother with the I-miss-you? Maybe Sunshine just thinks that he can't ask. Emmett thought as much, said that Justin believes he can change or be loved. And if that's why he's not coming to Brian…

"You know I'd do anything for you?" Brian says lightly, struggling to get the words out.

Justin opens his mouth to speak, but the doctor knocks on the door quietly and steps in. He's taken for-fucking-ever, so Brian doesn't know why he couldn't wait another five minutes for them to finish this conversation. Justin needs to know that he's not quite the same man he was three years ago. Finding the time to say something like that, though, is hard to come by, especially considering that they've never indulged in overly-personal, sentimental conversations.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

While Sunshine loads the kid into the back of the Jeep a couple hours later, Brian looks over all the prescriptions and doctor's instructions in his hands. What do they do these days? Just load a kid up on drugs and hope one of them works? What kid needs five prescriptions for a cold, an ear infection, and a bad case of teething? Apparently, the combination was a fucking impressive one, resulting in a higher than normal fever. Even more impressive was the sheer time it took for the doctor to find some drugs that wouldn't set the urchin's allergies off. Goddamn Taylors and their goddamn allergies.

With the kid secured and sleeping in her seat, they both get into the Jeep, Brian passing the mountain load of paperwork to Justin. He turns to start the engine, but Justin grabs him by his scarf and pulls him across the center console.

Their lips meet, Justin's fingers carding through his hair. Tension that he hadn't evenrealized he'd been holding in breaks with a flick of Justin's tongue. Brian opens his mouth for Justin, and they kiss lazily—still deprived of sleep—and break only when they hear a little snore come from the back.

"Thank you."

Brian puts on his sunglasses. "For what?"

Justin doesn't clarify—he doesn't really need to—and Brian shifts the Jeep into reverse and heads out of the parking lot. He makes a quick left turn onto the street.

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

"Um, but Mom's house is the other way," Justin says.

"I know that. I said we're going home."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter:** 8  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 11,719  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> strong language, explicit sexual situations, discussion of past Brian/Other and past Brian/Lindsay  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> A big thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this chapter and for those who participated in my Meet & Greet. Given the massive word count for the chapter, it'll be split into two parts again. Major thanks to L for the beta and to C and P for helping me with some spotty characterization in the draft; these girls can never be thanked enough for putting up with me.

* * *

><p>Before they manage to get to the Loft, Justin insists that they swing by the Rite Aid on Tremont to fill the urchin's prescriptions. There's a minor queen-out in the Jeep over whether or not Brian's staying in the car with the kid—which he fucking <em>isn't<em>because he needs to grab a couple things while they're here and Justin won't do it for him—but Brian wins out in the end. It's not like the urchin isn't bundled up like some sort of Eskimo anyway; she's not going to feel the cool air. But, as what Brian takes as punishment for his pissy attitude, Justin saddles him with the kid while he heads back to the pharmacy.

That's essentially how Brian winds up in the "family planning" aisle—Brian snorts at the name—with the very much unplanned kid in his arms, perusing his choice of condoms. Since he probably has fifteen minutes to kill before the kid's prescriptions are up, he doesn't bother rushing to find his usual kind.

Her tiny, gloved fingers tickle his collarbone as she plays with the collar of his leather jacket in a daze. He must look like such a fucking hick, wearing sweats and a two thousand dollar Dolce & Gabbana jacket. Glancing down at her blond head resting on his shoulder, Brian wonders if she's worth being caught so close to Liberty in some trailer-trash getup. As she gives a small, miserable sigh, he has his answer. Brian holds her a little tighter, in spite of himself.

Since he started buying rubbers as a teen, it seems like the types have quadrupled in number—ribbed, pulse intimate massager, vibrating ring, intense lubricated, climax control. Jesus fuck. Whatever happened to lubed and non-lubed?

The one that does catch his eye has Brian pausing for a long moment—Bareskin or something like that. Whatever it is, it's purporting to be more than a third thinner than the run-of-the-mill condoms. He picks up the small box and glances it over.

"What do you think, kiddo?" Brian asks as the urchin begins to make this high-pitched squeaking sound that can't be a good sign. "Think your old man would want to give these a try? He's a total slut for the idea of barebacking."

It's the closest they'll ever get to it, that's for sure.

Before now, Brian's never even considered switching up his usual brand. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, as his old man used to say. He's hardly had an incident with his regular kind, just once with Justin a few years ago. And for that very reason, Brian slips the box back where it belongs because he doesn't want to risk it. Even if they're supposed to be safe, Brian won't trust them; not with Justin.

Instead, he grabs three of the largest boxes of the simple lubricated kind, juggling them in his hands. Maybe he should have grabbed the fucking cart like Justin had suggested, or at least one of the baskets. After the second time he drops one, Brian comes up with a plan.

"Here, kid," he says, handing her one of the boxes to hold. "Make yourself useful."

Brian finds out that she's an obedient little shit for the most part. They only have to play the pick-up game—a personal favorite of Gus' for a solid two years—once before they hit the end of the aisle. As Brian stands up from retrieving it, he comes face to face with some young chick who nearly runs into him.

"Oops, sorry!" She laughs a little, doesn't sound sorry at all. Just very interested.

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles, trying to slip around her and failing.

"It looks like you're going to be busy." She bends over a little—Brian guesses to give him a nice view of her tits in some low cut shirt—and starts making faces at the kid. "Aren't you a sweetie? Yes, you are."

"Do you—"

"I think it's hot. Single fathers taking care of their kids, you know? I can respect that."

Brian wonders how the fuck she's deduced that he's single. Then again, the absence of any sort of wedding band might have given that much away. And why she thinks that her respect would mean anything to him is a goddamn mystery. Is this really how the breeders do it? Obnoxious encounters in the condom aisle? Give him the backroom of Babylon any day.

"She's not my kid," Brian says, tone warning. "And I'm not single."

The bimbo frowns, smacking her gum and glancing down at the condoms in his hand. "Oh. You and your wife or girlfriend or whatever must be very busy then."

"He's insatiable. Now if you don't mind, get the fuck out of my way."

As Brian pushes past, she throws him a dirty look, whether because he rejected her or because he's a fag, Brian has no fucking clue. What he does know is that he's getting tired of this place; there's a reason—which he is conveniently remembering now—why he always hits the CVS on Liberty. At least most of the shoppers there are queers and queens.

He tries to ignore the fact that he'd admitted to being in a relationship. It'd just slipped out. Sure, he'd always been _single_in some sense of the word, but mostly that was dependent on how many days Justin would withhold sex or bitch him out if he overstepped any boundaries. The longer he'd hold out, the more Brian felt like a condemned man. But if this three year separation taught him anything, it was that it's far better to be condemned than alone. Justin is something special.

So maybe he isn't exactly single right now, in the Brian-and-Justin-defined sense of the word. Had he just walked off with some twink, Justin wouldn't forgive him for ages, if ever. Right now, with Justin and this kid—currently chewing on a corner of his box of condoms—is where he ought to be. And if that means he's not really single, so fucking what?

Maybe he could be alright with that.

Brian finds Justin down the snack aisle, pondering over a selection of Doritos. Some things never change, and the fact that he'll always know where to find Justin at any store carrying food makes him grateful for that. It's as if there's still a little part of _his_Justin locked inside this newer, more unfamiliar one.

"Don't get the Nacho Cheese. If you're going to bring that garbage into my place, at least get the good kind."

"Which do you want then? They're two for four bucks on sale."

Brian leans down, pressing a kiss to Justin's lips. "Still clipping coupons, I see. What a good little housewife."

Justin smirks, rolls his eyes as he flips Brian off with a stifled laugh. He grabs two bags and tosses them into his cart, which Brian notices is filled up with some things—milk, bread, diapers, and a few other staples. As Justin turns back towards him to say something, Brian watches as his brow furrows.

"What's she chewing on?"

"A box of condoms."

"Brian!"

Giving Brian the patented you-are-such-an-irresponsible-shithead look, Justin pries the kid's fingers from the box and tosses it into his cart. Not at all impressed, the urchin's face crumples into a frown, and then she begins wailing, fat tears slipping down her red cheeks.

"Now you've done it," Brian says.

"Do you know how many germs were on that box that you were letting her stick in her _mouth_?" Justin asks, scathingly.

"She's a kid. That's what they do. Jenny spent all last summer eating dirt, and she lives to tell the tale. Stop being such a twat."

Pissy, Justin reaches for the urchin, but Brian evades him and drops the rest of his condoms in the cart instead. With a few bounces, he has the kid calmed down again. Her nose is running, but he doesn't have anything to wipe it off with and the diaper bag is still in the car. Since he has to grab some lube anyway—thank god he fucking remembered—Brian figures he'll just swing by the bathroom on the way.

"Hey, where are you going with her?" Justin asks as Brian walks away from the cart.

Brian looks at him, shrugs. "I thought I'd head over to automotive. Let her lick some antifreeze while we're waiting."

He doesn't have to glance back at Justin to know that there must be a very unamused expression on his face. While Brian always knew Sunshine was a fucking spazz at times, he never figured it'd ever get this bad. Drama princess.

Brian looks over at the kid, who is sucking on her index finger. "How the hell do you put up with him?"

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Oh my god, Brian," Justin moans.

He smirks, leans down to kiss Justin long and hard on the mouth—the taste of chili pepper on Justin's mouth heating up his lips. Sunshine tries to bat Brian away since he's still chewing, but Brian doesn't let him. His tongue slips out to swipe a long path across his lips, begging Justin to let him in. He doesn't though, pushing him away with a strangled laugh.

"Christ, can I chew my food without you shoving your tongue down my throat?" Justin asks, wiping his mouth off with a napkin. "That's disgusting."

Brian smirks. "I took your moaning to mean you wanted something other than Szechuan Beef in your mouth."

Tugging him closer by the collar of his shirt, Justin kisses him properly this time, tongue and all. Brian can't keep his hands off him, slipping them over shoulders and arms, abs and hips. He tastes spicy, his pale skin warm from so much hot food. Suddenly, Brian's at a complete loss as to why he hadn't invited Justin over for dinner sooner.

"No," Justin says, peppering him with a few more kisses before turning back to his food. "I just forgot how much I love Chang's."

"You probably get far better Chinese in New York."

"True, but Chinese in New York doesn't come with a hot stud willing to feed me with his chopsticks in his very glamorous loft apartment. So, Chang's is definitely better."

"Where'd you learn to sweet-talk a guy like that?" Brian asks, teasing note in his voice.

"The two years I spent peddling my ass on New York City street corners?" Justin offers.

Brian chokes on a piece of Sesame Chicken mid-swallow. What the _fuck_? After a giant gulp of water, he turns to stare at Justin wide-eyed while Justin gives him a few firm smacks on the back to loosen his cough.

"It was a joke, Brian," he says, laughing.

"That's not fucking funny."

"I'm sorry."

As if to make it up to him, Justin's lips drift across his jaw as his fingers skim along his chest to tease his nipples. Brian's eyes shut tightly, his breath catching as Justin pinches just hard enough to send a jolt racing towards his lower belly. Sunshine has had him half-hard all night, and it's driving him into a slow frenzy.

He leans closer to Justin's ear, whispering, "Let me suck you off."

"Not yet."

"Why the hell not?" Brian's hand slips down to grab Justin through his jeans.

"One, because Elise is still up."

Glancing over to the kid, Brian confirms that she's still awake, blue eyes transfixed on _Finding Nemo_while she drinks juice from her bottle on her blanket. He groans inwardly and shifts his gaze back to Justin. Well, that shut down that possibility for a while, but that doesn't mean that they can't do a little flirting until then. If Justin thinks he's off the hook, he's out of his fucking mind.

"She's busy with the fish."

"Granted, she's usually entranced by the movie, I think she'd still notice if my dick was in your mouth," Justin says in a low voice.

"We could move to the bed."

"It's been all of fifteen hours since you've gotten off. Are you really that desperate?" Justin asks with a laugh, pushing Brian back as Brian leans in to suck on his neck.

"Fifteen hours is a long time."

"The answer is still no, and besides—"

Justin's abruptly cut off by the sound of someone buzzing from the downstairs door. Getting up quickly, Sunshine walks over to buzz whoever-the-hell-it-is up.

"And that," Justin says, "is the other reason why we can't."

As soon as there's a knock, Justin slides the door open and in pops Daphne, laden with a duffle bag and two plastic bags from some take-out place. Brian scowls, unamused.

"What? You're at my place for all of four hours and you're already inviting people over?" Brian asks.

"Nice to see you too, Brian," Daphne says, rolling her eyes and scrunching up her nose in that infuriatingly Daphne way. She turns back to Justin. "I picked up your stuff. Your mom was already home from getting Molly, so she packed your bag. If you're missing anything, bite _her_head off."

Justin takes the duffle and then hugs her. "Thanks, Daph."

"So where is she? I can't wait to see her. I bet she's like twice as big since I saw her last."

Not wasting any time, Daphne tears through the room as soon as Justin points her in the general direction of the TV. She drops the two take-out bags on the coffee table to free up her hands so that she can pick up the kid. The urchin makes a surprised sound before looking up at Daphne and giving her a wide, sleepy smile.

"Oh my god, she's so cute. How is it possible for her to be any cuter than she was a couple months ago?"

Justin joins them in front of the coffee table, checking the kid's temperature with the back of his hand while smiling with Daphne. Christ, they both look so grown up now; Brian remembers some of the first nights he ever saw these two on Liberty Avenue. That'd been almost ten fucking years ago. Still, there's something about the way they are together that reminds Brian of the old Daphne and Justin, who used to camp out on his couch and watch MTV on school nights, who used to talk about cute boys and fall asleep in a tangled heap by the time that Brian got home from the clubs.

"You did good, Dad," she teases, smiling up at Justin with a sort of bright affection that Brian had always assumed was puppy-love.

"I didn't do much. Just made the deposit," Justin says with a laugh.

Daphne wrinkles her nose again. "Gross! There are ladies in the room, ya know."

"Sorry, Brian."

At that remark, Brian flips him off and returns to his dinner, the whole mood of the evening now ruined. Not that he can really fault Justin too much for inviting Daphne over, despite how much he might bitch and moan about it later. Having been friends since fucking preschool or some shit, Brian supposes that the distance and time constraints keeping Justin and Daphne apart are probably killing them. If it were him and Michael, Brian would feel that way.

"I brought you some Primanti Brothers since it was on my way. Steak & Cheese with onion and a side of Street Fries—your fav," Daphne says, not bothering to look up from where she's playing with the kid on the floor. "You can tell me I'm the most incredible friend in the whole wide world later."

Justin starts digging around in one of the bags. "Thanks, Daph."

"You're eating again?" Brian asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"What? Why do you say it like that?" Justin's expression falls. "Are you trying to say something? Brian?"

As much as he'd like to mess with Justin, Brian understands what it's like to be a self-conscious fag pushing thirty. There's nothing wrong with Sunshine; he's still hot, still baby-faced and insufferably naïve in a lot of ways. A little older? Sure. But maturity is a good look on him—a _very_good look. So biting back any remarks, Brian settles on tossing a throw pillow at Justin's head and stealing the rest of the Szechuan Beef.

Justin and Daphne settle in by the coffee table, their worlds immediately shifting to revolve around the urchin. After the third or fourth fit of giggles and second round of baby talk, Brian's had enough and heads over to his computer. He almost feels sorry for abandoning the urchin with this pair of lunatics. But, she doesn't seem to mind so much when Brian checks on her as he walks away, her fingers tangled in Daphne's hair and eyes wide in awe of this new person.

He opens up his work email, effectively having tuned _the children_out for the most part. There's too many emails in his inbox, most of which are marked urgent. Brian snorts. Stupid dickwads can't even manage to handle their accounts without bothering him; he ought to just fire them all already and start fresh again. How can so many people have so many work-related crises over the fucking weekend? Useless twats.

For the most part, Brian ignores the fact that his people are the best in their field; sometimes it just doesn't fucking seem like it.

After answering a few emails—he's going to send around a goddamn memo about what does and does not constitute urgent—Brian's attention drifts back to Justin and Company. Daphne has the kid in her lap, tickling her with that insufferable hedgehog-y thing while Justin lies on his stomach and watches. His face lights up whenever the urchin smiles at her toy—a sight that tears Brian apart as much as it builds him up.

He has no idea what the hell he's going to do with Justin. He brought him here for what? To have him around, maybe. To figure out if, after all this time, Justin's presence still belongs in this too-empty loft. And besides a mentally scarring torture session that involved force-feeding three rounds of medicine into a miserable baby, it was a good afternoon. Too fucking good, even if it was tragically domestic in just about every sense of the word.

"You can tell me, you know," Daphne whispers just a little too loudly, grabbing Brian's attention not only with her voice but with brief eye contact too.

"Daphne," Justin growls, seemingly doing everything in his power to avoid looking at Brian.

Brian's eyebrow arches in response, and Daphne quickly avoids his gaze altogether, tell-tale blush on her cheeks. So they're talking about him? If it weren't for the fact that everything is so fucking confusing between him and Justin, Brian would probably pry—embarrassing Justin and Daphne in the process—to figure out what his once-upon-a-time fan club was saying.

Now though, he'd rather not know. His own feelings on the matter are hard enough for sort the hell out as it is. He doesn't need to know Justin's too, especially since he worries that Sunshine isn't fairing much better than him with the terms of their arrangement. Namely, keeping their fucking emotions out of it.

Maybe out of fear, Brian gets up from his desk and walks up the stairs to the bathroom without so much as a word. He doesn't want to risk it, even though he knows he wouldn't actively eavesdrop. If there's one thing he doesn't need, it's this shit fucking up what would have been a perfectly amenable agreement. Sometimes Brian really hates this person that he's become—a man too soft and vulnerable in comparison to the guarded wall he'd been when he and Justin first met.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"_So we're staying with Uncle Mikey for two days and then spending all of Christmas at Gramma Deb's. I don't know where we're going after Christmas yet. Mom told Ma that we might visit Nan, if she's not being a bitch—_"

"Language, Sonny Boy," Brian says in his best muncher-approved, stern-father voice, trying to stifle a laugh in the process.

"_Sorry, Dad_."

"Just don't let your mothers catch you saying shit like that. Anyway, continue."

"_Mom doesn't want to go if Aunt Lynette's going to be there. Oh, and Mom told me to tell you that you can come visit Nan too, if we decide to go. I don't know why because Nan doesn't even talk to you. She just looks at you all funny, like you tracked mud on her nice carpets. Why does she do that, Dad?_"

Brian can't very well explain that the Petersons started loathing his existence the moment he shifted from becoming the man who was going to straighten out their carpet-munching daughter to the man who fucked said daughter in their bed over summer break. He has his parenting fuck-ups, sure, but he knows better than to open that can of worms. The last thing anyone needs is his son playing mediator at Christmas dinner at the Petersons', explaining to his grandparents that it's not nice to hold grudges or that his daddy loves his mommy in a very special way. And he definitely wouldn't put such a thing past Gus, especially since he's done this sort of thing before.

Many times.

"I don't know, son. Ask your mother."

Okay, so maybe that's not a fair response. But it's not like he shoves off all parental responsibilities to Mel and Lindsay too fucking often. It's just nice to be able to pull the not-my-kid card—even though he loves Gus and Gus is his, whether he has his goddamn rights or not—when his son is being infuriatingly curious about topics that are too fucking awkward to discuss with a kid.

"_You always say that, and then whenever I ask Mom, she makes that face. You know, like that time you bought me ice cream way after dinner even when she told you not to. Like that. And then she says she'll call you later. What do you guys talk about? Does she yell at you a lot? Because when she makes that face, she looks like she really wants to yell at you. I don't want to get you in trouble._"

"It'll be fine. Just ask her."

"_Okay. And I'm supposed to ask you if you need me on Christmas to go to Grandma Joanie's._"

"Do you want to go to Grandma Joanie's?"

Normally, the only thing that can get him to go to his mother's is a gun pointed directly at his head or Claire threatening to leave their mother in _his_ care, which is practically the same thing. However, Gus has taken a bizarre-as-fuck liking to the old bat over the past couple years, and Joanie is surprisingly attentive in a way that she'd never been with Brian as a child. Not that Brian would ever leave Gus alone with her. Fuck that. Again, he's made some questionable calls as a father, but there's no way in hell he'd ever leave his son alone in _that_ house with _her_.

The fact that Joanie likes Gus at all confuses the hell out of him. Brian had assumed that her fucking _stellar_parenting skills coupled with her holier-than-thou-art bigotry would have her turning her back on her grandson without a second thought. But Brian thinks she loves Gus in a way that she could never love him, even if she hates that Gus' parents are queer and condemns both he and Lindsay to hell every chance she gets. Lindsay thinks it's important that Gus gets to know his grandparents, even if they are shitty excuses for human beings. Brian's not sure what he thinks; he just hopes that Lindsay isn't making a bad call on this one.

"_I like Grandma Joanie's. She has a nice tree, and she promised to put red and white lights on it this year, remember?_"

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up, Sonny Boy. Sometimes grown-ups disappoint. Especially your Grandma Joanie. Tell Mom or Ma that we might go. I don't know what my plans are yet."

"_But I'm still spending some time with you, right?_"

The insecurity of Gus' voice cuts through him. "Of course you are. I'll pick you up at Gramma Deb's on Thursday."

"_Are we going to put up that stupid Charlie Brown looking Christmas tree again this year?_" Gus asks, disapproval evident.

"What's wrong with my tree?"

"_It's small and fake! And if you put two bulbs on it, it falls over, Dad. It's the worst._" Gus huffs. "_Oliver and his family go and cut down their own tree every year._"

Just as Brian's about to bitch about this Oliver kid—who, as far as Gus is concerned, is the only thing that keeps the world turning—he hears the shower turn off, signaling that Justin's about done. Rather than Gus overhearing someone else in the Loft and asking questions, Brian decides to cut their call short tonight.

"Well good for Oliver," he says, sarcastically. "What is he, your new best friend, Sonny Boy?"

"_I like him a lot. He's really nice and lets me play with his toys._"

Brian takes a sip of beer, grins to himself. All the best boys do.

"_Except, Dad, he kinda kissed funny_."

At that, Brian nearly spits out his drink. Kissed funny? What the fuck? He tries to swallow his beer, but it's hard to do that and wrap his mind around the fact that his son is kissing boys. Holy fuck.

"You kissed this Owen kid?"

"_His name is Oliver!_" Gus says, indignant.

"Right, Oliver, sorry."

"_And Mom and Ma say that kissing boys is just as good as kissing girls. That it's okay._"

"Yeah, of course it is, Gus, but—"

"_You kiss boys. You kiss Trevor like…a lot,_" he accuses.

"But we're not kids! And, look, you know that Trevor and I don't kiss anymore."

Except for the other night at Ted's party. And one night last month. And…_shit_. Well, it's not as if they kiss like they used to, and that's what's fucking important right now. They're not like that anymore.

"_I know, but I still like him a lot. You should just tell him you're sorry, Dad. Ma tells Mom she's sorry sometimes even when she's not. It's okay because it makes the other person feel not so bad anymore._"

"We didn't get into a fight, Gus. Listen…"

He doesn't know where to start. Jesus fucking Christ, his life is a mess. Gus really likes Trevor, which makes sitting down and explaining the whole situation—as in its _over_between them, for the most part—too damn difficult. His son finds a way to hit every nerve in his barrage of questioning, so Brian's been putting it off. And it's not as if he can have the discussion now, over the phone, with Justin getting out of the shower.

And _Justin_. Brian has no fucking clue how to explain him to Gus. They don't talk about Justin much with him, so he could have completely faded from Gus' memory by now. Or not. Who fucking knows? And regardless of whether he does or doesn't remember Justin, Brian still worries about whether or not he'll approve. Gus means everything to him. _Shit_, he's not fucking doing this right now. He'll sort both the Justin and Trevor mess out when Gus comes to visit.

"_You're all quiet now. Is something wrong?_"

"No, son."

"_Did I make you sad because I said stuff about Trevor? I'm really sorry I hurt your feelings._"

"No, it's not that, Gus. Trevor and I are still friends, and you can still talk about him. I just…" he trails off, sighing.

"_You have a lot of grown-up stuff on your mind?_"

Brian smiles. "Yeah, something like that. I should go. I don't want to keep you up, bedtime looming and all."

"_Do you promise that you're not mad at me for kissing Oliver at the park?_"

His son is kissing boys. Holy shit.

"I promise."

"_On Judy Garland's grave?_"

"Yes," he says with a laugh. "Christ, remind me to never let you go anywhere with Emmett ever again. He's obviously a bad influence."

"_I love you, Dad._"

"I love you too, Sonny Boy. Sleep tight."

Just like he does every night, Brian waits for Gus to hang up first. When Gus does, he taps the _end_button on his phone and sets it down very carefully on the coffee table, almost in a daze. He barely registers Justin sliding the bathroom door open, and even then he doesn't really care.

Gus is kissing boys. His _son_ is kissing _boys_. No, his son _kissed_ a _boy_. Singular, as in one boy one time.

At least that's all Gus is confessing to right now, but it's not as if his son is the type to keep secrets. Gus is too open for shit like that right now. Still, Brian plans on calling Lindsay tomorrow to see if she's heard about this. While there's some things he won't share with the munchers out of confidence, he doesn't think his son's emergent sexuality should be one of those things.

Sitting back into the sofa, Brian stares out the window and wonders what the fuck this means. He has a gay son? No, it's not that simple. There's nothing simple about sexuality, just sex. Gus likes girls. Well, he likes girls too.

He's pined after this little freckle-faced one on his soccer team all season, and Brian had the sneaking suspicion that the kid—Abby? Amy? No, _Alice_—liked Gus back. And then there's the matter of one Molly Taylor, who Gus has been crushing on for two years and counting. Come to think of it, she has freckles too. What, his son has a thing for freckles? Gus has a freckle fetish? Who the fuck has a _freckle_fetish? Maybe this Oliver kid has freckles too. Maybe it has nothing to do with boys or girls just…freckles.

"Are you finished with Gus?" Justin calls from the kitchen.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah."

"How is he?" He rounds the couch, bottle of water in hand, to sit next to Brian. "Do you two always talk this long?"

"Usually. And he's good. Straight As on his report card and his soccer team won their kiddie league. He got some stupid plastic trophy or something that I'm sure the munchers have proudly displayed on the mantel."

"He sounds like such a great kid. I'm looking forward to seeing him again, but I'm afraid I won't recognize him. They grow up so fast."

"Yeah, they do."

Too fucking fast. Brian remembers the days when Gus was five and a total ball of uncontrollable and endless energy. Back then, he couldn't wait until his son matured. But now? He'd give anything to have that kid back. Not that he doesn't love Gus for who he is now; it's just that he's starting to do and say things that are grown up. Brian's not sure he's ready for high school or first dates or graduation or…fucking _prom_.

"What's wrong? You seem out of it." Justin rests his hand on Brian's forearm. "There's nothing wrong with him, is there?"

Brian shrugs. "Depends on who you ask, I guess."

"Brian?"

The concern in Justin's tone has Brian turning to look at him. He doesn't mean to scare Justin, but it's the truth. If Joan finds out…if the kids at school find out or some of the parents in his kiddie soccer league, maybe they'd see him differently. The thought of that makes him sick.

"Gus kissed a boy," he explains, the words feeling weird on his tongue.

Justin laughs. "And you're not on Liberty Avenue, screaming at the top of your lungs that you have a gay son with your chest puffed out in paternal pride?"

"I'm not—"

Not what? Not proud? Of course he's proud of Gus. He loves Gus. He never, ever wants him to experience a hard day in his life. But if Gus is gay or if he's bi and decides to date a guy, Brian knows that it'll happen. The world's a fucking shitty place filled with shitty people who do and say shitty things, and his son will suffer because of that. His gut knots up at the thought. He doesn't want that for Gus; he wants to protect him from that.

"You're not what?"

Brian shakes his head. "One same-sex peck does not a queer make, Sunshine."

"He likes girls too then?"

"I think. Fuck, I don't know."

"You're just…not acting like I expected you to act. You're sure you're okay with this?" Justin asks softly, blue eyes worried.

"I'm not my father. I'm not _your_father. I love my son."

"But?" Justin prompts, seemingly sensing it lingering there.

"I'm proud of him, no matter what."

He can't say it. Maybe can't isn't the right word. Maybe it's _won't_. He won't admit to his insecurities, his worry. He won't admit that maybe he would feel a bit better if Gus liked Alice a little more than Oliver. But not because he's against Gus being with a guy—he doesn't give a shit where Gus is sticking his dick so long as he's doing it safely—it's just that he'd sleep easier. Brian wouldn't have to worry about whether or not some homophobic assholes, sometime down the road, would decide to hang out on Church Street to teach some queer kid a lesson. And that that queer kid would be his son. He doesn't ever want to get the call that Jennifer Taylor got ten years ago.

Fuck.

He'll love Gus no matter what, if being with a guy is what Gus chooses someday then he'll do whatever he can to make sure his son knows how to be safe in all the ways that matter. He'd sacrifice the sleep, the time, all the money on plane tickets because Gus would need him then more than ever. That would never be an issue. But Brian's not blind to the fact that being a gay teen isn't easy—been there, done that—and that he would rather Gus never had to experience everything that he had.

"You're worried," Justin says, thoughtfully.

"I guess that makes me a shitty father, huh?"

"No, it makes you a good father. You're only a horrible person if you want to change him, and I believe that not a day has gone by that you haven't loved and been proud of your son for who he is." He slips his fingers through Brian's hair. "If he is gay, you'll teach him how to be unapologetic but smart about it."

"Such faith."

"I turned out alright, didn't I? The best homosexual I could possibly be?"

Brian ducks his head to hide a sad smile. It took them both so long to get there—wading through bullshit and their own stubbornness—but they both made it relatively in one piece. He hopes it's easier for Gus. Maybe this is all needless worry on his part, but Gus is always on his mind. Brian really can't help it. For tonight, though, he ought to stop, ought to think about anything else. Let this sink in, and he'll talk with Gus about it when he comes for Christmas. Hell, it'll just be one more thing to add to the list of uncomfortable conversations.

"I guess you're okay." Brian glances up. "You give one hell of a blowjob."

Justin shoves him playfully before pouncing on him. Brian lies back on the couch, a pile of Justin pressing him into the cushions. Justin's all sharp edges at first—knees and elbows digging into his side and stomach—before he softens out. Brian's lips find their way to Justin's, and he tastes cool mint. The warmth, the familiarity—it relaxes him in a way that nothing else might have if Justin hadn't been here. Brian considers fucking his worries away, but the way Justin settles against him, tucked closely against him on a too-small couch, tells him that it probably won't happen tonight. Sunshine just wants to relax. And as long as Brian can touch him—his fingers, neck, hair, hips—he might be able to settle for that too.

"Did you have fun with Daphne?" Brian asks, threading their hands together.

Justin nods against his shoulder. "I miss her so much. She comes to visit when she can, but it's not the same, you know? After James left, she stayed for two weeks, and I swear that it was the best two weeks I'd had in a long time. She helped with Elise and everything. Even got up in the middle of the night to feed her."

"Sounds like you had fun playing house."

"We used to when we were little. We'd spend hours in her Fisher Price playhouse. Somehow I always got stuck being the stay at home dad to our, like, five kids, and she worked at NASA or something." Justin laughs, and then his expression softens. "She's going to be a good mom. I can just see it when she looks at Elise."

"So why didn't you do it?" Brian asks.

He feels weird asking, but it's a question that's been bothering him for a while, especially since finding out what a lousy mother the kid has. Knowing how close Justin and Daphne are—having lived through 4AM break up calls and inopportune visits—Brian had always assumed that Daphne would be the one to have Justin's kid. She intelligent—fuck, she's almost done with her _residency_—and beautiful. She and Justin would make incredible kids, so why pass up that opportunity?

"I can't have a baby with Daphne. She's my best friend," Justin explains, idly drawing some design on Brian's chest with his finger. "It'd be like you having a baby with Michael."

"I had a kid with Lindsay. She's a friend."

"That's not the same, and you know it." Justin stops tracing and sighs. "Daphne has her own life to live right now. Kids aren't in the picture for her, and even if she'd offered, there would have been no way that it would have worked out. Daphne would've wanted to be a mother to our kid, and I…that's just not how I wanted things to go. I could have never asked her to sign away her parental rights."

"So you just picked the first snatch that met your requirements?"

Justin lifts his head. "That's not fair. You weren't there, Brian."

"I may not have been there, but I know from the way you talk that your baby mama doesn't give a shit about her kid. At least my mom cared enough to get up off her drunk ass and feed me before my dad came home to beat the shit out of me."

Blue eyes fix him with a stare, one Brian knows to mean that he's walking a very narrow line and that he's also hit a nerve. Sometimes the truth fucking hurts, and he's not afraid to point out the obvious if Justin's too blind to see it.

"I'm tired of this conversation, Brian. I honestly don't get why you hate Delaney so much. You don't even know her, and I won't let you talk about the mother of my daughter that way. She loves Elise."

Brian snorts, and Justin's back to glaring at him. To soothe away any rising argument, he runs his hand up and down Justin's back just like he used to do when Justin would wake up from a nightmare. Sunshine softens to him, all threat of bitching him out seemingly fading.

"She was abused, Brian. Her parents…I can't even begin to explain to you what they subjected her and her brother for _years_. The State finally took them when they were fourteen after there was evidence of…_fuck_."

For a minute, Justin stills in his arms. Then he rubs his hands over his face like he does when his allergies start bothering him. Only this time Brian suspects that it has nothing to do with pollen. Watching Justin like this, he feels like a total asshole. Maybe he should. Except, Brian's always lived by the idea that you fight tooth and nail to give your kid all the things that you never had. Christ knows _he_tries.

"The point is that she spent her whole fucking life being told that she'll never amount to anything, first by her parents and then by the system and society at large. But she did fucking make it, Brian. Maybe just to piss all those people off. I really admire her for that, and I'm proud that she's Elise's mother. That's the kind of attitude I want my daughter to have.

"So she doesn't want to be a full-time mother? Can you honestly blame her for having issues after everything she went through? Still, there is this part of her that wants children. But, she's worried that she'll hurt Elise like her parents hurt her. It would never happen, but you can't convince her of that. Eventually, I stopped trying."

"And?" Brian asks, sensing something lingering there.

Justin looks up at him. "I'll never be able to have kids like straight people. I'll never be able to conceive a baby with the man that I love or look into my child's face and see…and see _him_."

Sunshine's fingers skim across Brian's neck before curling behind it and pulling him down. Justin's lips are warm, pliant. Maybe more importantly, moving painstakingly slow against Brian's mouth. At the moment, Brian wonders what's gotten into him because Justin only kisses like this when there's something going on in that blond little head. But, he's too fucking scared to ask.

Pulling away, Justin thumbs Brian's scratchy jaw. Brian moves his arm around Justin's waist and pulls him a little closer. It's obvious to him that Sunshine isn't done talking, but it's several long moments before Justin works through whatever is on his mind enough to speak.

"Delaney will never be able to be a mother like everyone else. She has no more control over that than I have over biology, so we're both different from most people, I guess. Neither of us should be punished for that though, for things that were way beyond our control. That's why this arrangement worked out best for the both of us, Brian. I can be a father, and she can be a mother the only way she feels she can be."

There's still so much about the whole scenario that Brian just doesn't get. Maybe he understands the whole situation with the kid's mother a little better, but everything else? It wasn't too surprising that Justin wanted a kid, but why now? He's not even thirty yet, and he has his whole fucking career ahead of him. Not to mention the fact that he has no one to support him, no partner to parent the kid with. It seems so fucking stupid to him, but Brian's sure that somewhere in Sunshine's head it made perfect sense. And while he wouldn't mind knowing, he's sure as hell not going to ask.

Instead, he lies with Justin, exchanges looks and feather-light touches every now and then. Brian will never understand Justin's attraction to damaged goods, to kids who were always at the wrong place at the wrong time. He'd say it's not healthy and that Justin should get over it so that he has a chance of having a normal life, but Brian's not sure he's ready for Justin to let go.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

He can't sleep. Not that he hasn't fucking tried for at least an hour, tossing and turning in a now cramped bed with an urchin foot kicking his kidney every fifteen minutes or so. That's finally what drives him out and over to the windows, the city aglow in pinpricks of whites and blues.

The urge to curb his nicotine craving hits him not long after he gets up, and Brian nearly lights up before he remembers that Justin has a strict no smoking policy around the kid. With an irritated snort, he shoves the cigarette back into the package and tosses it somewhere in the general vicinity of the coffee table. Christ, he's turning into some hen-pecked breeder.

For ten minutes of relative silence, he sits on the sofa and examines one of Justin's late night doodles on the corner of Friday's _Pittsburgh Post Gazette_. Some art schmuck in New York would probably drop a hundred bucks to have it—especially considering the going rate of Justin's work—and all Brian is going to do is toss it in the trash for the cleaning lady to take care of. Not that he think so little of Justin's art. Actually, he's a fan and not solely for personal reasons. The collection that he has in storage from Justin's show early last year—waiting to be hanged in the Boston office of Kinnetik—is evidence enough of that.

While he doesn't know how or when, Brian does believe that things have to change for Justin. Brian's never sat back and let circumstances keep Justin from what he was born to do, and this really isn't any different. Sunshine needs to get back to his art full-time, the sooner the better.

Despite appearances, there's an obvious solution to the whole fucking shitstorm. Maybe if Justin had a little help, maybe if he felt that he could leave the kid with someone he could trust…well, Justin might agree to go back to work then. Brian's always wanted to take Kinnetik to New York someday—it's not like he'd be relocating his fucking life for _personal_reasons—and if he could secure the Blackwell account, a New York office would be far more practical and fundable than it is right now. Yeah, maybe he'd talk it over with Theodore, get an accountant's perspective on this risky venture.

Any other thoughts about the matter are cut short when he hears the urchin begin to fuss. Fussing turns into full on crying in no more than ten seconds, and Justin's up with her not long after that. Brian stands up from the couch and ends up meeting Justin halfway to the bedroom. He has visions of the night before—hospital trips too early in the morning and dickwad nurses who don't know what the fuck they're doing. Rather than subject the kid to that again—and themselves—Brian hopes she's just crying from a nightmare or something.

"What do you think—"

"She's still warm," Justin says, smoothing her hair. "It might be her teeth. Her ear medicine should take care of her earache for a few more hours at least. I don't know."

"Should I grab her Orajel?"

"No, I think I'm going to try to give her a bottle first. She hardly ate anything at dinner, so maybe she's just hungry." He moves a little closer to pass off the urchin. "Would you mind while I heat up her milk?"

Brian takes her easily and settles her against his chest. He's almost getting used to this whole holding the kid thing. While he won't say that it doesn't terrify the shit out of him, this childcare thing is part of Justin needing his help. Alright, maybe not _needing_—Brian doesn't think Justin's _needed_him for a long time—but making things easier for everyone involved.

After sitting back down on the couch, Brian shifts her around in his arms until she looks at least a little comfortable. It's pretty hard to tell with her sniffling and crying all over the place. Since no amount of bouncing or awkwardly rocking her is helping, he leans over and grabs her pacifier from the coffee table, popping it in her mouth. She begins to suck on it, and Brian thinks that maybe food is her issue after all, thank the fucking Lord.

While he wipes off her cheeks with his thumb, the kid stares up at him, eyes wide and trusting. And honestly, he can't help but look back. She looks so much like Justin that it's still hard to get over. It's been a few years since he's been forcibly subjected to Justin's baby pictures—moments when he's grateful that his own mother is an emotionless alcoholic bitch who never loved him—but from what he vaguely remembers they're a lot alike.

Maybe part of Brian always knew this day would come—that Justin would have a kid. He never envisioned it for the both of them—no fucking way—but he figured it would come down to this. He also figured that the kid, whatever it was, would be cute because Justin can (obliviously) command the attention of a whole room. He just never imagined the kid to be quite _this_cute. It may be a cause for concern.

"Here," Justin says, reaching for her as he walks around the side of the couch with a bottle in hand. "Thanks, Brian."

Brian hands her over as soon as Justin sits down next to him, and she begins to suck on her bottle. He chances a look at them—Justin grinning sleepily at her while she eats—before reaching for the TV remote. Sitting back, he feels as if he ought to say something to Justin or turn on the TV for some distraction from the whole thing. It ends up not mattering though because Justin catches his eye, his expression soft in a way that Brian finds unbearable.

"You know, once upon a time when I was a stupid little twink who didn't know any better, I thought this might be you and me someday."

Brian cocks an eyebrow. "Playing Mommy and Daddy?"

"I was thinking more Daddy and Daddy," Justin clarifies, nose scrunched up in distaste. "But yeah, I guess. I thought…" He leans his head against the back of the couch and laughs. "I thought that one day you'd wake up and realize that you were madly, deeply in love with me, and you'd ask me to marry you, vowing off all other men forever. We'd buy a house and a few years down the line find a surrogate to carry our baby. We'd raise a beautiful family and grow old together."

"Wow, Sunshine, that's some fairy tale."

"I know, right?"

Warm fingers slip up his wrist, into his palm before threading with his cold ones. Brian looks over at Justin, into familiar blue made dark in the low light, and sees how tired and worn he is. But beneath that, there's still a flicker of something—happiness, maybe, or affection.

"One out of seven isn't bad," Justin jokes, cracking a smile. "At least where you're concerned. It may have taken me four years, but I finally got you to say it."

"Three out of seven," he corrects. "I did ask you to marry me—_twice_—and we did buy a house."

"True, but we never went through with either."

"Not for a lack of trying."

Justin pauses. "I'm sorry about how things fell apart at the end."

"We both knew it was never going to work out."

"Yeah, maybe. That doesn't mean it was any easier to let it all go, though. I still wanted you, Brian. I wanted you and the house in the country and…"

When blue eyes fall to the kid, Brian doesn't have to hear the rest of his sentence to know what else Justin wanted. Of course he would have still wanted a family. Sure, it's not why they split. And maybe if they'd been able to hold out for each other instead of throwing in the towel, Brian would have finally succumbed to the idea of a mini-Sunshine. Never happily, of course. Justin would have had to drag him kicking and screaming to the maternity ward to collect their death sentence, that's for fucking sure. But, in theory, he might have been alright with it eventually.

"It doesn't matter now," Brian says quickly. "It's over."

"I guess you're right."

He tries to ignore the less-than-convincing tone of Justin's voice in favor of turning on the TV and surfing through the guide. It is over, he reminds himself. After Christmas, things between them will go back to normal. Justin in New York, him in the Pitts. Anything else that he's considering—Kinnetik, relocating, maybe even rekindling—is just that, consideration. The only thing Brian knows for certain from where he stands now is that nothing's going to change.

"Hey, look. It's that shitty ghost hunting show you used to subject me to," Brian says, selecting the channel.

"It's two in the freakin' morning, Brian! I can't watch—wait, is this the one about the TB sanatorium in Kentucky? Oh god, it _is_."

Maybe unconsciously, Justin curls up against him, the urchin still in his arms sucking on an almost empty bottle. Brian slips an arm around Justin and pulls him in a little closer as Justin rests his head against Brian's shoulder. The familiarity of the situation—minus one kid—warms him, as lesbianic as it sounds.

"I'm never going to sleep tonight," Justin mumbles, eyes glued on the TV.

Brian lets his lips skim across Justin's forehead before kissing him soundly on blond hair. "It's not like _she_ was going to let you in the first place."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

He's missed this.

Yeah, it's painful to admit, but he has. Waking up, seeing Justin standing in the kitchen as he scans the newspaper and sloppily stirs his coffee, trying to avoid Justin's shit as he crosses the room to join him—it's stupid and sentimental and something he never imagined he'd ever feel. But, he does, and Brian wonders how waking up to an empty loft last month could have ever felt normal.

"Morning," Brian says, lips ghosting across the back of Justin's neck as he comes up behind him.

Justin sighs, content, but doesn't bother to acknowledge Brian further than placing his hand over Brian's as Brian slips it across Justin's waist. Nudging Sunshine a bit with his hips, Brian dips his hand into Justin's pajama pants, teasingly running fingers through coarse, wiry hair.

"Don't kill me," Justin whispers, bringing his lips to Brian's in a light, over-the-shoulder kiss.

"What'd you do?" Brian asks, not really caring much as this point since he's very preoccupied with Justin's very hard cock.

Justin winces. "I may have broken the coffeemaker just a little bit."

"Why do you do this every time you visit?"

"If you'd just use the one I bought for you three Christmases ago…"

With a nip at Justin's ear, Brian says, "Why are you still nagging me when my hand is on your dick?"

"Maybe you're not as good as you used to be," Justin teases.

Just for that, Brian spins Justin around and pushes the pajamas off Justin's hips as he drops to his knees. His mouth is on Sunshine before Sunshine can make a sound—good, bad, or otherwise—taking him in deep. Brian relishes the taste, the smell—thick and salty on his tongue.

"B-Brian, hey, stop it." Justin gasps. "We can't."

He moans around Justin, sending Justin's fingers scrambling to fist into brown hair. Like hell they can't do this. They're _doing_it already, and from the way Justin's legs are quivering, he's not going to fucking last long anyway.

"I'm serious. Eli is—shit, _Brian_, fuck—um…she'll be awake any…_goddamn_…minute."

So he's working on a time schedule? Big deal. It's not as if he hasn't learned a thing or two about Justin in the seven years—give or take—they've been together. With no more than a few well-placed fingers and a couple long strokes with his tongue, Justin shoots into his mouth with a whimper. Brian swallows, licks him clean, and stands to press Justin into the kitchen counter.

"What was that about not being good anymore?"

Justin cards his fingers through Brian's hair, trying to smooth it out. "I'm glad you reminded me."

Sunshine pushes his neck down to bring him in for a kiss, Justin's tongue dipping into his mouth to taste himself. Grabbing his ass, Brian pulls him closer, relishing the feel of Justin's tongue tangling with his, the feel of Justin's skin—hot and slick—against his own.

As Justin draws him out of his boxer-briefs, Brian fights with one of the kitchen drawers, the feel of Justin's hands on him making it impossible to concentrate on anything but the mind-numbing spasms contracting in his lower belly. He finally manages to get it open, his hand seeking out one of the several condoms stashed there.

"You keep condoms in with the cutlery now?" Justin asks, eyebrow raised in obvious disapproval. "That's totally not sanitary."

Brian shoves the condom into Justin's hand. "Put it on me."

Justin does, but not without one more disapproving look. Condom on, Brian lifts Justin up, Justin's legs wrapping tightly around his waist. One arm securing Justin, he lines himself up, but his thrust is interrupted by a sharp cry.

Groaning, he rests his head on Justin's shoulder for a minute, trying to suppress the urge to scream or cry out of mother fucking _frustration_ because he's not gotten off for more than twenty-four hours and he's sleep deprived on top of that. Is this really what parenthood entails? Mid-fuck interruptions, 24-7? Because _fuck_that shit.

When Justin kisses his temple a few seconds later, Brian eases him back to the floor. They both fumble to get their cocks back where they belong before Justin winds his arms around Brian.

"To be continued?"

Brian snorts. "Yeah, maybe when she's in college."

Justin swats his ass. "I didn't figure you'd be hanging around that long."

With a squeeze of the hand, Justin goes to retrieve his urchin. Briefly, Brian stands in the kitchen, wondering what the fuck he's going to do—with his life, his business, Justin, fucking _everything_—before deciding that the first order of business is getting off. Stalking off to the bathroom, Brian passes Justin sitting on the bed changing the kid, Justin shooting him a small smile as he walks by. It makes his chest hurt.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"How is she?"

Justin looks up from the thermometer to Brian as Brian emerges from the bathroom, sated. He shrugs, lays the thermometer down on the table with the rest of the kid's shit that's slowly taken over his dining room.

"Her fever is a little higher than it was last night. It's not dangerously high, but it doesn't look like it's going to break anytime soon. I'll call her pediatrician later to see if there's anything else I can do."

"Do you think she's going to need to go to the hospital again?"

Brian glances down at the urchin, sitting in her carseat on the tabletop so that Justin can manage feeding her better. There's a bowl of some sort of baby cereal next to her that Brian remembers feeding Gus when he was little. She seems a little more alert today, blue eyes wandering around the room, but her cheeks are flush.

"I doubt it." Justin picks up her cereal, tests it, and then gives her a spoonful. "Brian, you don't have to worry about us. You're going to be late for work if you don't leave soon, and I'm sure that you've got a lot of important things to take care of today."

Yeah, he does. But the thing is, Brian knows—whether he wants to admit to it or not—that there are more important things outside the office that require more immediate attention. Lying with Justin last as he dozed off, Brian was reminded of another time when it'd been painful to leave Justin for fear that Justin would need him. It's not the same now; Sunshine's told him that he doesn't need rescuing. Maybe he doesn't, but that doesn't mean that Brian can curb his desire to look out for Justin. He knows he can't; he's tried for years.

"I'm not going into the office for a couple days," he says, picking up an empty coffee cup that Justin no doubt set out and staring at it idly.

Justin lets the spoon fall short of the kid's mouth. "What?"

He sets the cup down on the counter. "You heard me."

After dragging one tired, blond twink and one sleeping urchin to bed at four fucking AM, he'd sent an email to Cynthia explaining that he wouldn't be in until the middle of the week and to reschedule any meetings. As most of them are meetings within the company, Brian doesn't feel so on edge about missing a couple days. He can work from home easily enough, and should crisis plague the masses, he's just a short drive away.

It sounds good enough in his head, anyway. Kinnetik's run by the best in the field as far as Brian is concerned; they should be able to handle it. And any nervousness he may or may not be feeling likely has nothing to do with the state of his company at all and more to do with the fact he's putting his personal life before his business. That's not happened in a very long time.

"Why?" Justin asks, tone not accusatory yet but threatening to be if Brian doesn't watch himself.

"I have a new campaign to start for the Heinz account, and I'll never get anything done if I make myself available to the incompetent twats-for-brains I call my employees."

Justin expression softens considerably, and he feeds the urchin another spoonful of cereal. Brian feels as if he's dodged a bullet on that one; Justin no doubt would have a fit if Brian implied that he thought Justin needed taken care of.

"I'll call Mom in an hour and see if she can pick us up before her afternoon showing."

"What the hell for?"

"Brian." Justin pauses, rolls his eyes and smiles. "If you're worried about getting distracted in a place full of adults then I can promise you that you'll definitely be distracted by an eleven-month-old baby."

"I don't mind her."

A few days ago, Brian thinks he would have been lying. But now? Maybe not so much. Against his will, he's gotten used to her, and when she's not being a cockblock, he guesses she's alright to have around. Not fun. Not enjoyable. But _maybe_alright.

He watches as Justin reaches for his hand, threads their fingers together and pulls him forward. Deftly evading a heaping spoonful of that nasty cereal shit, Brian slips a hand across Sunshine's neck and leans down to suck on his lower lip. Sunshine hums appreciatively, and Brian can taste the smile on his lips before he can ever feel it.

"Yes," Justin says, breaking their kiss, "you do."

"Alright, you fucking have me. But if it makes it any better, she's a little more tolerable now that I've been subjected to her constant presence."

"I understand that's practically a compliment coming from you—" The kid gives an indignant grunt, cutting him off, and Justin gives her another spoonful of cereal. "But, this is still no place for her. She needs her things, Brian. I mean, I love the Loft and everything…"

"But it's a fuckpad."

Justin winces. "Yeah, it's a fuckpad."

It's not as if he's an idiot. Experience has taught him that this place isn't exactly kid-friendly. Hell, it's barely Mikey-or-Justin-friendly with the number of times they've nearly spilled something on his furniture. The Loft has never and will never be a _home_. And it's not as if practically hearing that from Justin hurts. It doesn't. This place was never intended to be anything more than a space to sleep between fucks. Brian's okay with that—the house that Kinney built.

"Listen, we'll still see each other." Justin tugs softly on Brian's shirt as if to punctuate the statement. "I might be able to sneak out once or twice before I have to go back to New York, if Elise is feeling better and Mom is up for it. We'll hit Babylon or something. And maybe I'll see you on Christmas at Deb's."

He reacts to Justin's words as if they're some sort of threat, but that's not how Justin intended them. Stiffening, he directs his eyes anywhere that isn't close to Sunshine. Brian tries to remember that this arrangement is just about hooking up when it's convenient, that there was no fine print about take-out, goddamn crime dramas on TV, or midnight fights over blanket hogging. That's not in the cards for them, probably never will be. Still, he's disappointed. If not about spending their days together, then simply for not seeing each other on fucking Christmas.

He jams his tongue into his cheek. "Maybe?"

"I have a giant list of people I need to visit, and I can't drag Elise around too much with this ear infection."

"We're your fucking family."

"I know that, Brian," Justin says softly.

Fuck this. He walks from the dining room to the coffee table and reaches for his pack of cigarettes, nervous twitch to his hands. It's been too fucking long since he's had a nicotine fix. Just as Brian has the cigarette between his lips, he pauses and remembers present company. Slipping it between his fingers, he pauses before slowly slipping the cigarette back into the pack.

"I'm going to the house."

"The house?" Justin asks, wiping the urchin's mouth off.

"Our house."

As Brian turns a little more to get a better look at Justin, he finds that Justin appears more shocked than anything, his lips parted and eyes a little wider than normal. Tossing the pack of cigarettes on the couch, Brian waits for Justin to say something. It seems to take Sunshine a minute or two to form coherent thoughts.

"You…still have it?"

"Do you know how hard it is to sell a country manor in this economy?"

Alright, he never tried to sell it. As if he fucking could. While they never actually got to live there for anything more than a weekend once or twice a year—sometimes less—there were too many memories made to just sell them off like they didn't mean a goddamn thing.

"Why are you going there?"

Brian shrugs. "It's quiet."

"Oh."

Oh? Brian resists the urge to snort. His little, articulate princess—_oh_, he says. Still, the disappointment in Justin's tone is evident, and Brian's really not sure why. Maybe because going clear to West Virginia will make seeing each other more difficult, if not impossible. With a sick kid, even less than thirty minute drives can be hellish.

"It doesn't have to be."

"Brian…"

"You could come with me."

"But Elise—"

"Fucking bring her, Sunshine."

"We don't have anything at the house for a baby. I can't take her there."

"Then we'll buy her whatever the hell she needs on the way."

Justin's brow raises. "Do you know how much that will cost?"

"Do I look hard up to you?"

"Brian, while I really do appreciate the offer, I can't let you do that."

"You're being a stubborn shit," Brian says, matter-of-factly.

Justin picks the kid up from her carseat and says, easily, "That's some newsflash."

Watching Justin throw a few things into the kid's bag guts him like so few things have the power to do. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, Justin always walks. Most men would take it as a sign to move on—and he's fucking _tried_—but somehow Brian can't. At least, not like this. Not when he has to see Justin packing up, little by little.

"What do I have to do to convince you to stick around?" Brian asks, putting himself out there for once in his pathetic life.

"Why's it so important to you, Brian?" Justin looks thoughtful. "Our arrangement—"

"Fuck the arrangement. I…like spending time with you. Last time I checked that wasn't a crime in the State of Pennsylvania. And why the hell are you so hesitant about this? If you're worried about getting too involved, I'd say we fucking passed that point about five miles back."

As soon as Sunshine refuses to meet his eyes, Brian knows he guessed right. He can't fucking blame Justin; he doesn't like it either. Hell, he'd give anything to stop this before it all started. Maybe. Shit, maybe not. Who the fuck knows? They're both well beyond keeping what's happening between them as a simple fuck.

"It's just complicated," Justin says finally.

"When's it ever been simple?"

He nods. "Point—Kinney."

"If it'll help change your mind, I'd be willing to have Christmas at the house so that you don't have to drag the kid around."

"Really?" Justin seems so surprised. "But Brian, you didn't want _anyone_to see the house before we finished it."

"This may be as finished as it ever gets. So what do you say?" Brian picks up the phone on his desk and holds it up. "Do you want to call your mommy and tell her you're running away with me again?"

Justin pauses, huffs a little, and then smiles. As he walks across the room to Brian, he shakes his head, exasperated yet obviously so fucking pleased. Brian's a little proud of himself for taking a risk and exposing himself like that. He'd been hurt so many times by doing it that he forgot it could actually feel really fucking good.

"For the record," Justin says before taking the phone, looking at Brian pointedly, "I didn't _run away_with you the first time."

He shrugs. "Semantics."

As soon as Justin presses the _talk _button, Brian grabs him around the waist and pulls him in close, urchin wedged between their chests. He lowers his lips to Justin's ear.

"One more thing. If I'm inviting our entire fucking family over for Christmas, I expect you to be very_attentive_, Mr. Taylor."

"Attentive to them?" Justin asks, nuzzling his neck as the urchin makes weird-as-fuck gurgling noises between them. "Or to you?"

"Two guesses."

"I bet I only need one."


End file.
